A Civic Duty
by KittyPimms
Summary: Christine is a waitress struggling to make ends meet when a call to jury duty comes as a most inconvenient summons. Though reluctant to participate, she is intrigued by the defendant; a badly deformed man accused of blackmail and murder. Though the world seems to begrudge him his very existence, she begins to feel pity for the accused who is only a man, after all. A man named Erik.
1. Chapter 1

Hello? Anyone remember me?

Well, I remember all of you and a recent trip to jury duty mixed with pleas from long ago to attempt a modern tale has inspired me to write a new story! (There might have also been a personal challenge thrown in by the prosecuting attorney when she was quizzing me on my profession. I told her if she made the case interesting enough I'd see about making it into a novel like she requested).

But okay, okay, I also am writing an _actual_ novel that will simply be published (a companion piece to _A Nymph Without Mercy_) and let's face it, I can't seem to go very long without hearing from all of you... so I hope you enjoy! Oh yes, but first...

DISCLAIMER: I am not a lawyer. I am not a judge. I am not a police officer. I am not a criminal. I _am _an avid watcher of many courtroom dramas and while I have done my best to research so as to maintain a degree of reality, please accept any mistakes with grace. Or if you have any of the above professions (hopefully not the criminal one) and would like to let me know how to improve things, feel free to do so! Just please do so kindly :)

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><p>I<p>

The judge had told them that a jury was selected at random. No name was more likely to be called than another, yet since coming of age three years ago, Christine had been asked to appear twice. From the murmurs of the other people milling about in the tile and plaster waiting room, it seemed as if many were far older and were experiencing this particular courthouse for the very first time. Despite having already been through the process before, Christine could not help but feel nervous. A sheriff sidestepped an overweight gentleman, his gun and Taser prominently displayed on his belt.

Christine suppressed a shudder.

She smoothed her hands along her wool skirt, trying to calm her nerves. She had never had any particular dealings with the law, yet somehow being in the courthouse made her anxious. An elderly woman beside her placidly worked her wooden knitting needles, pink yarn perfectly interlocking into what appeared to be the beginnings of a cap for an infant.

A young man across from her jostled his leg impatiently; cell phone in hand, dinging obnoxiously as he evidently gathered points from his incessant tapping.

Christine glanced down at her watch. It was already half an hour passed their appointed time to appear, and in her mind she once again rehearsed her explanation why she should be dismissed. She could not postpone, not again, but she needed to be able to work. While her job might be secure, she barely earned enough waitressing to keep her small apartment, not to mention her reliance on a few of her meals each week coming from the sympathetic cooks who didn't seem to mind sneaking her tidbits on her break…

The little pamphlet in the mail had said that hardships were reason enough to be dismissed and she had to believe that the judge would be sympathetic. She had been relieved the last time when at the last moment the prosecution had thanked her for her service and allowed her to leave, her legs shaky and lip abused from the amount she had nibbled it while answering the questions the attorneys and judge had put forth.

A rather haggard looking woman appeared, a well-used clipboard in her hands with a thick stack of papers haphazardly contained by the straining metal.

Christine's winced when her name was called only third, but she tried to remind herself that all the sooner she would be heard and dismissed. Her stomach growled and she purposefully ignored it, meekly nodding at the bailiff who ushered her into the courtroom and pointed to the open seat in the jury box.

This courtroom was much larger than the one she had seen previously. The face of the prosecutor was grim, his desk kept impeccably neat, his stack of manila folders carefully aligned aside from one opened with twelve large sticky-notes empty and waiting to be used.

The judge was equally stern. Her previous experience had been with a cheerful woman, whose disposition and casual demeanor had at least managed to settle Christine's nerves to some degree, if not soothe them entirely.

This man exuded judicial authority, and she feared if she at all misspoke that the bailiff and his gun would be turned on her.

She swallowed.

She was being silly and she knew it, but that did not quiet her racing heart even as she watched the jury box fill with other people, wishing she could simply go home.

Her eyes strayed to the far table, noting the young man with the too large brown suit, his desk scattered and unkempt as he scribbled and shuffled papers. Although Christine considered herself a terrible evaluator of age, she guessed he could not possibly be long out of law school, just as fresh and green as she felt. How could anyone possibly want her to pass judgment on another? Surely the justice system should reconsider this entire process. Others, older, and far wiser than her own years and limited knowledge should be used to determine the guilt or innocence of a person.

"You ever been on a jury before?"

An older gentleman beside her smiled at her kindly, and she was afraid her own in return resembled more of a grimace. "No, and I hope not to today either."

He nodded. "Don't we all. I overheard the clerk saying that this is some big murder trial, expected to go on for weeks."

Christine blanched. "I don't have weeks!"

The man shrugged. "Can't say this is how I meant to spend my retirement, but I guess we've all got to make sacrifices when someone decides to go around hurting other people. Someone has to spend the time putting them away."

She shook her head and huddled further into her seat. No matter her trepidation, she would have to stand and explain why she needed to leave.

The rest of the occupants in the waiting room filed into the empty seats she supposed were reserved for spectators, and while the small room had been crowded, she now saw that there were far fewer reselections available than she had anticipated.

A small knot of dread formed in her stomach.

The judge gave one sharp whack of the gavel to quiet any lingering whispers. "Firstly, I'd like to thank those of you who answered the summons today, though it appears our options will be rather limited. You would think the possible fine and jail time would be enough incentive!" He glanced at the members of the room expectantly, as if waiting for a reaction. A few nervously laughed but little else.

"In case any of you were not aware, this is a criminal case, and a complex one at that. As such, we can expect for it to run a minimum of three weeks, and while I understand this can cause hardship in many cases, it is also an unfortunate necessity of any civilized society that its citizens perform this duty. It is a privilege to serve and I would hope that each and every one of you would put aside other responsibilities and embrace this call wholeheartedly."

He looked pointedly at each person currently in the jury box. "Now, would any of you like to tell me why you cannot possibly serve today?" The knot in her stomach made an uncomfortable twist.

She raised her hand at the same moment as no less than five others did also. Their reasons were perfectly reasonable, at least to her. Sick children, non-refundable vacations, injuries that made remaining seated an impossibility. Person after person exited the room, and finally the judge motioned for her to stand and give her reasoning.

She was used to talking with strangers. It was impossible not to when her living depended on the tips she acquired at the café, and she found the more personable she forced herself to be, the most generous the patrons became. But talking to a room full of important people, members of law enforcement and the justice system, left her shaky and uncomfortable. Christine took a steadying breath and tried to still her hands by clasping them firmly together.

"Um… I'm a waitress, you see, and I live by myself. If I can't work then I won't make rent and I'll have nowhere else to go."

The judge looked at her skeptically. "We adjourn for the day at four o'clock. Surely your manager can allow you to come in afterward."

Christine blushed, wishing everyone would stop looking at her. "I…"

"Miss, the law offers protections of employment during your service. You cannot be fired and I'm certain if you explain the situation to your boss that you will be given compensation. This is not forever, and you may not even be asked to fully serve. But I do not find that adequate cause for immediate dismissal."

She was not worried about losing her job, but merely being without a shift for however long the trial dragged on. Theirs was a special café, where the waiting staff took turns serenading the guests with segments of famous operas. While they always had a steady flow of customers, usually business executives who appreciated the ambiance of the establishment, shifts were given based on seniority… and talent.

While she loved to sing and thought that she had been incredibly lucky to find a job where she could do so, she would have to be there another three months to even begin to qualify.

But she sank down into the worn cushion obediently, hoping that something in her answers to the interview would prompt her release.

When it appeared that no one else would be asking for a dismissal, the judge announced that the defendant would be brought in. "I must ask that everyone prepare themselves. While I have yet to see the accused myself I have been told that his features can be rather… shocking to those unprepared for them." He eyed the potential jurors sternly. "By no means should his appearance influence your opinion of him. You are to base your decisions on the facts, not on his face."

He nodded to the bailiff who opened a door to the side of the courtroom and ushered a man fully dressed in black to the empty seat beside the frazzled looking lawyer. Despite the warning the judge had given, Christine still heard a few gasps throughout the room as… well… the ugliest man she had ever seen seated himself and stared blankly at the desk. He looked almost like death. His face was shrunken, his skin painfully thin and frail, his hair wisps of dark against the pallor of his flesh.

There was something seriously wrong with him.

It was not merely his features that left with such a strong impression, it was the way he carried himself and the vacancy of his expression. Did they drug him? Was he even fully aware of his surroundings? She supposed that a psychological evaluation must have been conducted that would allow a trial to take place, but even as she stared at his shocking face, she felt a moment's intense pity for the man they had all been summoned to evaluate.

The dread she felt magnified tenfold.

The judge cleared his throat and addressed the room. "While I find it doubtful given that there is no known record of this man existing, protocol dictates that I ask if any of you have a previous relationship with this man. His name is Erik, and I am given to understand that under normal circumstances he prefers to wear a mask."

Christine couldn't be sure but she thought she heard a mumbled, "Understandable," from the prosecutor. Something protective in her flickered to life. He could not help the way that he looked and for a moment she almost wished that she _would _be placed on this jury, if only to ensure that someone who would use his face against him would not taint the deliberations.

But then her stomach reminded her that food was a necessity, and she guiltily cast an apologetic look to the accused man. Not that he paid her any heed, his eyes never moving from the table before him. She knew she was rude for so openly staring at him, but she was incapable of diverting her attention as the judge prattled about the details of the case and introduced the attorneys.

Extortion.

Murder.

The man was tall; his suit, what little detail she could see from this distance, was of a fine quality. While she tried to think positively of people, she could now admit that some part of her generally believed that a person was only arrested for a reason—surely they had committed some misdeed to warrant their incarceration.

But this man… nothing about him appeared capable of violence. Even with his slumped posture she could see that he was terribly thin, his long fingers folded absently on the table did not seem like the kind that would commit murder.

She shook herself firmly. She did not know him. His face might inspire pity but that did not mean he was an innocent.

"Miss Daaé?"

She blinked and forced her attention away from the man and to the public defender who stood before the jury box. Where it belonged.

"I'm sorry, what was the question?"

The man smiled slightly, his face almost boyish. "You're very young, Miss Daaé. Do you think you would be able to judge my client based on the facts and evidence alone and not on his appearance?"

Her head tilted slightly as she processed his question, irritation growing. "Are you asking if I am vain? That I would think him guilty solely because of his… misfortune?"

His eyebrow quirked. "Do you?"

Her lips thinned and she could not help but glance at the defendant once again, not liking that they were speaking of him as if he was not fully present in the room. He might seem detached, but this felt… rude and almost cruel in a way. More than ever she wanted to leave. "He is only a man. If he has committed some crime then he should be… held responsible, but there'd have to be… evidence." She hated the way her voice shook. She believed what she said, but everyone was peering at her—all except the eyes of the man whose fate was to be in the hands of twelve of his peers.

The attorney before her smiled, and she realized that underneath his longish hair and unfortunate suit he was rather attractive, though knowing that only made her blush and glance down at her twiddling thumbs. "One more question Miss Daaé. You said that you were worried about your job. Do you think that if you were selected for this jury that you could put aside your personal conveniences and focus on providing this man with your full attention?"

She grimaced, hating the way her attempt at protecting her livelihood had been perceived by the professionals in the room. Was it so wrong to desire a warm place to sleep and food in her belly?

"I would do my best."

The man nodded before turning his enquires to the other people around her.

She glanced down at her wrist to check the time only to feel the prickly feeling of being watched. Christine looked up quickly but no one seemed to pay her much attention. She took a calming breath and hoped they would break soon for lunch. Despite her limited resources she would definitely need to scrounge up enough money for at least a little something to eat.

Lodging was expensive in the city, but that was where work was to be found so regardless of how she wished she could save and watch her bank account grow each month, instead she spent most of her earnings on the shabby flat and what little remained went toward bus fare to and from work, and lastly to groceries.

Things had not been much better when her father was still alive.

The prosecutor replaced the young lawyer before them, and thankfully this time she realized he was speaking to her before he had to repeat himself. "Miss Daaé, it says on your questionnaire that both of your parents are dead. What was the nature of their deaths?"

Her eyes widened, never imagining that she would have to speak about their deaths amongst strangers. The questionnaire had asked about any unexpected deaths that she had experienced and she realized now they were referring to murder—probably not wanting to taint the jury with people who had personally experienced something of a similar nature to what they were to evaluate.

"My papa said that my mother died when I was very young. Something about a complication from a miscarriage." She shrugged, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Speaking about her mother's death had always brought such sadness to her father and eventually she had stopped pressing for more details and accepted that there had been no more mother and baby brother. It would just be her and her papa from then on.

"Um… my father was…killed by a drunk driver five years ago." A lump formed in her throat, and she blinked rapidly as she tried to keep her composure. Even now she remembered being home alone as she waited for her father to return home. He played with a symphony and while it did not pay overly well, they had wanted for little and she was proud of him for doing something he loved.

But then there had been a knock on the door, and she remembered how shakily she had called out, "Who's there?" before opening it to the police officer who looked at her with such sympathy.

She pushed away the memories resolutely. It did no good to dwell on it.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Miss Daaé, but I'm afraid I must ask you a few questions about your experience. Was the driver ever located?"

She swallowed thickly. "He was."

"And do you feel that justice was carried out? Were you satisfied with the trial and his prosecution?"

In reality, she did not have much to do with the trial, nor did she have much knowledge as to what had transpired. After she had identified the body of her beloved father she had… lost herself… for a time. People talked to her, offered condolences, and she may have even attended the trial. All she remembered was the ache within her chest, the desperation to be back in the little apartment where she was loved and not fostered in the group home where she spent the final two years of her childhood.

But what she did know was that the man was in jail and that was enough for her. It did nothing to make the pain lessen, but she supposed overall she was grateful that he could not hurt anyone else.

Christine took a deep breath. "I don't know much about the trial itself. That was a very… difficult time for me. But I suppose overall, yes, I don't have any complaints."

Except that the only family she had was still gone, and no verdict could ever return them to her.

"We all have past experiences that obviously will influence our ability to reason, but overall would you say that you could be a fair and impartial juror?"

She sighed. She should simply say she couldn't be and then she would be dismissed and she could go back to her life. But instead she found that the lie died on her lips as her eyes met black where _surely_ eyes should have been, the defendant looking up from the table for the first time—and staring directly at her.

"Yes."

The day dragged on with some members being dismissed and more questions being asked in a repetitive manner that she thought at one point she might scream. She overheard the bailiff telling the elderly woman with the knitting needles that it was cheaper to go farther away from the courthouse, so Christine went as far as she dared with only the hour allotted to them.

She now had $3.62 less in her wallet, but at least her stomach had ceased its protestations and she found that she could focus more easily and her emotions were better in check. She still resented being asked such personal questions, but at least she only felt the usual amount of hurt when thinking about her papa and the tears did not spring so readily to her eyes.

Five years may have passed, but she did not think she was any closer to healing. Not really.

The walk also helped her work out the kinks from remaining seated for so long. She was used to standing and scurrying about for work, and while she usually might have enjoyed the reprieve, she was too stiff and uneasy to fully relax in her seat.

"You have a good lunch? There's a good Mexican place on 5th if you get selected; were real speedy with the enchiladas."

Christine smiled wanly at the man beside her. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

The afternoon continued on much like had the morning, until finally the onlookers dwindled and the attorneys were asked to make their final selections. Each time they uttered a name for dismissal Christine held her breath, waiting for them to realize she was too young, too inexperienced, and definitely too unwilling to be seriously considered.

Until the prosecutor stated he was satisfied with the selections, and the judge turned to the defense.

"Mr. Chagny? Have you any further objections?"

The man swallowed and riffled through a few more papers before glancing once more at the jury box. "No, your honor."

The judge nodded. "Excellent. Then I thank our jury for their service today. Testimony will begin promptly at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, and I suggest you all be on time. Court is in recess until then."

Christine sat stunned for a moment as the rest of the jurors began to file out.

"Miss? You can leave now." The younger of the two bailiffs that had alternated during the day stood before her, a soft smile on his lips. She resolutely pushed away the tears that threatened and stood wearily, casting one final glance at the defendant before proceeding through the back of the courtroom doors.

He was still looking at her, and she didn't know how she felt about that.

But she didn't have time to dwell on such things now, instead she needed to speak to her manager and beg him to allow her a few night shifts, just until the trial was over.

Otherwise they were going to need to make use of those alternates they so carefully selected, as there was no way she could last a month without work.

She only prayed that he would be understanding.

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><p>Sooo... looks like Christine is in need of some monies now that she was selected! For those unfamiliar with the American system, you do get a small stipend for jury duty but it doesn't come right away so it's not very helpful for those who need consistent funds. Also, who thinks it strange that Raoul is Erik's defense attorney? I just couldn't help myself...<p>

_Also, _I had not realized how used to using British spellings I had gotten since writing medieval and historical stories. For me it just seemed to fit the period better and now that things are modern and firmly set in America (siiiigh... I miss sweet biscuits already...), I have to force myself to spell things differently! Ah well, I'll stop complaining.

I love reviews and getting to know my readers better so always feel free to contact me! Even just a hidey ho is much appreciated :)


	2. Chapter 2

_Wow._ Thank you all so much for taking the time to review, I've never had so many on a first chapter before! And here I was, feeling nervous that nobody would like the setting of my new story… shows me how much I know!

Quick clarification about the genres since a few people asked. I put Crime/Mystery because for the part I have written (which is oh so much at the moment… ahem) that's pretty much all it is. But as always, this will eventually become an Erik and Christine romance with all the bumps and… _issues _that come along with it. So never fear! Just a little patience is required.

Onward!

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><p>II<p>

Contrary to the judge's assurances, her manager was not overly accommodating.

"Christine, you haven't been here long enough to qualify for the position. It's one thing to sing and serve lunch—people's expectations just aren't as high. You know that most of our business comes from the dinner shift, and I just don't know if you're ready."

She bit her lip, promising herself that she wouldn't cry. She had to respect the rules of the establishment and while most of her wanted to beg and plead, the rest of her remembered that this was a place of business and she wouldn't make a fool of herself by weeping in front of the manager.

No matter how much she might want to.

"I understand that, Ewan, really I do! But you wouldn't even have to let me sing. Just… let me work. I'll stick to waiting tables or I could even stay in the kitchens and wash dishes, whatever you need."

Her hourly wage was not a lot and most of her pay came from the tips received from her performances, but anything would be helpful. She had almost scoffed when the clerk at the courthouse had tried to offer comfort by reminding her that jurors were paid fifteen dollars a day for their service—as if that was enough to cover rent and utilities.

Ewan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Christine, we have people who do that and they need the money just as much as you do. I can't deny them a shift just because you got called in for jury duty."

Despair settled over her and she pulled her coat a bit more firmly around her, even though the interior of the restaurant was comfortably cool.

"Listen, did you try to explain our policies to them? The court tries to be understanding about this kind of thing, especially since you're so young."

She shook her head, and even to her own ears her voice was pleading. "I tried to but the judge said that this trial was important and if I would just explain to you, you'd help me. _Please, _Ewan, it's just until the trial is over. I need this job…"

His lips thinned and he motioned for her to follow him into the office and he pulled out the deployment chart filled with names—her own still placed on shifts she could no longer cover. "I can't make you any promises but I will talk to the rest of the staff and see if anyone is willing to switch with you."

Christine's shoulders slumped and she nodded, at least glad that he would look into the matter.

"You're a good worker, Christine, and I'll do what I can. I know you didn't ask for this but it's still a big inconvenience."

She bit her lip to keep back her retort. She most certainly did _not _ask to be called and if she had succeeded in being dismissed, she would be more than happy to work whatever shifts he asked of her. She was always dependable, and it made her a little sad that he didn't seem to value her talents more. Perhaps she wasn't the one regular customers always requested, but a few came especially for her, introducing her to clients and praising her performances.

But she did not betray any of her feelings, instead offering what semblance of a smile she could manage.

"Thanks, Ewan, I really appreciate it."

He gave her a small grin, and she suddenly realized how tired he looked. He was only twenty-eight yet he bore most of the responsibility of running and managing the restaurant, the owner being a rude, overbearing woman who had received ownership of the place following a long and tedious divorce.

"Are you okay? I'm sorry that this is such a burden on you."

Ewan sighed again and gave a half-hearted shrug. "It's nothing for you to worry about. Just…" He shuffled a few papers on his desk before squaring his shoulders. "Try to remember that I'm not the one who makes these rules. I know what you and the rest of the staff must think, but I'm someone's employee, just the same as you."

She blinked. "Is the restaurant in trouble?"

He chuffed out a low laugh. "Not if I can help it. But Christine, I'm not the one who's really in charge. I can only try to make the best of it."

New worries settled over her. Would she even have a job to come back to? They did not lack patrons and the food was excellent, but the owner was… eccentric. She took hiring upon herself, and after the audition she was the one to place the prospective staff member on a shift. She had been critical of Christine's voice, claiming that she lacked feeling and passion, and Christine had not thought to argue.

Her joy for singing had dulled significantly since her father's death. While once it had been a source of endless amusement between them, now she felt empty and lonely without his violin to accompany her.

She would have preferred to sing melancholy pieces, but evidently that was not conducive to the proper atmosphere, and more lively compositions were selected. And although she had some reservations in the beginning, she had started to notice that the cheerful melodies or the occasional lovesick ballad almost made her feel better.

For so long she allowed the hollow ache that resided in her heart to taint what used to bring her comfort. Perhaps her papa would be proud if she could still find some pleasure in the diversion they had once shared so freely.

It was dark by the time Christine walked home from the bus stop. While the restaurant was in one of the nicer portions of the city, her small studio apartment could not boast of fine surroundings. The street lamps were few and far between and the buildings were dirty, and it was not at all uncommon for her to be stopped by a few homeless asking for change. Most of them were harmless, and she would spare whatever she could—though her giving wasn't often due to her own meager income.

But what she hated were the times when some of the rough looking men would call out to her as she passed, making lewd remarks about what they would like to do with her if she ever came nearer.

She had started keeping pepper spray in her purse, just in case.

Her apartment was not as nice as the one she had shared with her papa, but she took good care of it. The building itself was old as was much of the city, and while others in her building might not have been so careful in its upkeep, she did her best to keep a tidy house. Her papa had always ensured their home was clean, no matter the state of the place when they moved into it. "Just because we're poor doesn't mean we have to be slobs, Christine."

Her parents had emigrated from Sweden early in their marriage, ready for a grand adventure that included greater opportunity for her papa to make use of his musical talents. France had been considered, the romance of the country a tempting allure to the newly wedded couple, but ultimately America had become their chosen destination. Her mother had always supported him, or so he had often told her, even though Christine could see that guilt lingered on her papa's face.

She thought she understood it now.

To support a dream meant drudgery and sacrifice, whether it be skipped meals or dealing with unruly customers simply for the sake of a paycheck. Her mother had worked as a waitress while her father auditioned, and while he said they had been happy, Christine realized now how much her mother had loved her father to put his ambitions before her own.

Christine didn't even know what her own dreams were. Her father had wanted her to join him on stage, where she could sing as he played his violin, only this time to people who truly understood the art of music instead of what neighbors could overhear through the too-thin walls of their apartment.

She climbed the many steps up to her apartment, sighing in relief when the door clicked shut behind her and the quiet of the room embraced her. She was too tired to consider dinner, and she'd rather wait to eat any of her small reserves until she was more confident in her income, so instead she stripped tiredly out of her clothes and donned one of her well-worn nighties, soft and thin with age, before huddling under the covers and hoping that everything would work out all right, just for a little while longer.

-X-

"You look tired, missy. Not excited for your first murder trial?"

Despite how early she had gone to bed the night before, worries and troubled thoughts kept her from sleeping until almost dawn, and she had been forced to scramble to find suitable clothes before once more making her way to the courthouse.

She pushed away her grumbling thoughts that such was her lot that she would be required to frequent the courthouse on the other side of the city, and not the building she passed nearly every day on her way to the restaurant.

She turned to the man on her right, the same man who had spoken to her the day before. "Not really. It's a big responsibility and I've got a lot on my mind right now."

He smiled sympathetically and patted her hand. "Can't say that it's not good you're nervous. I've sat on a trial once before and there was a young kid who wouldn't take it seriously. No matter what the prosecutor says, it's hard to forget that a man's life is on our hands, and he'll be punished according to our vote. Doesn't get much more serious than that."

Christine nodded, his words not comforting her in the least.

"Name's Richard by the way. I guess we'll be getting pretty well acquainted over the next few weeks."

"Christine," she mumbled, grasping his proffered hand lightly.

Richard might have continued speaking but all of Christine's focus shifted to the defendant, led into the room by two bailiffs. He looked a little different today. While his face was still as deathly, his body impossibly thin, he carried himself with a bit more presence than before—his stare not quite as vacant.

"Scary, isn't he?"

Christine swallowed, her eyes never moving from his form. "He's only a man. He can't help it if he looks like that."

Richard shrugged. "Hear all the time in the news about face transplants and medical advancements. He could probably have tried something."

Irritation rose within her at his critical tone. While she did not know this man, Richard most certainly didn't either. Anyone could be poor and struggle with even basic necessities, and hospitalizations were expensive. Every year when flu season returned, she prayed she would remain well enough to work as she could not afford days off to recuperate, let alone a trip to the hospital from complications.

While the man was wearing a suit that appeared to be of quality, that did not guarantee he had money enough for risky surgeries. And if his parents had been poor like hers, they certainly couldn't have helped him when he was little, no matter how they might have wanted to.

One of the bailiffs came forward, a large stack of notepads in his hand as well as a clump of black pens rubber banded together. "These are for you to use to take notes throughout the trial and they are _strictly _confidential. When deliberations begin you may refer to them in your discussions but until then, keep them close and keep them private!"

"Don't know how we're supposed to do that when we're seated so close together," a young man in the front row grumbled in what she was sure was supposed to have been a low voice. A few of the other jurors chuckled, but Christine could understand his discomfort. A rather burly man was seated next to him, his shoulders easily encroaching on the younger man's seat.

"All rise!"

The judge entered, his hands already waving for the room's occupants to sit.

Christine smiled dimly as Richard's grumbled, "I'm too old for all this up and down…"

"I would like to thank our jury for being so punctual, I know this can be a terrible inconvenience for you and the court acknowledges your service." His voice was low and rote and Christine imagined it was tedious to constantly thank a group of twelve hostages—at least, that's how she felt in the moment.

While the jurors had indeed been on time, the court had not been so prompt. Already they were an hour behind schedule. The courtroom itself had been locked and they once more had to sit idly by in the waiting room. She had thought that at the very least the too-small room would have seemed more spacious now that the jury had been selected, but instead it was even more crowded as the courtroom across the hall summoned a new batch of potentials for service. Yesterday she had been able to grab one of the few chairs, but today she had finally abandoned the room altogether in favor of sitting on the stairs, trying to find a bit of peace amidst the stuffy hallways.

Eventually a bailiff had appeared and ushered them into the courtroom, and Christine had been grateful for the moderate temperatures and a cushioned chair—a vast improvement over the harsh tile step.

"Now, before we begin, I'm given to understand that a plea agreement was offered yesterday by the prosecution. Has the defense decided to accept those terms?" He fiddled with the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, squinting at a piece of paper before him. "Life imprisonment instead of the death penalty. What say you Mr. Chagny? Does your client wish to accept?"

Christine's heart clenched at the possibility that this decision would be taken from them. The man would not have to… die, and she could go home and back to work immediately.

And then she felt horribly guilty. Some people plead guilty even when innocent simply because they were frightened. The defendant did not _seem _afraid, but that didn't mean much.

And she hated to think what would be done to him in prison with a face like his.

The young attorney stood, buttoning his suit jacket nervously. His suit today was a light grey, and while this time it seemed to fit him better, Christine could not help but cringe at the pink paisley tie and coordinating shirt that seemed so terribly out of place in the courtroom.

"My client has chosen to proceed with the trial, your honor."

The judge did not look surprised. "Very well, we shall proceed with opening statements. Mr. Sorelli, would you care to start?"

"Certainly, your honor."

Compared to Mr. Chagny's strange attire, the prosecutor looked every bit the professional attorney. He exuded confidence and authority, and he walked purposefully in front of the jurors.

"Members of the jury, the case before you is a simple one, but only if you do not allow your compassion to overtake the facts. While this man may have had a difficult life due to his deformity, that does not make him any less responsible for his actions. What the State will show is that the accused, on the third of April, entered the home of Edgar Poligny and when the defendant's attempts to further blackmail him failed, shot and killed him. You will hear testimony from Poligny's business partner Claude Debienne who will give evidence that this man," he pointed firmly at the accused, and Christine couldn't help but think it rude, "sought to exert control over their business for many, many years. He used fear and manipulation until finally, when the two gentlemen desired retirement and refused to give into his continued demands, Poligny suffered a fatal shot to the head. And furthermore, in his attempt to hide his crimes, the defendant staged the scene to appear as a suicide, showing a distinct lack of remorse for his actions."

The prosecutor paused and looked each juror in the eye, and Christine felt distinctly uncomfortable at his scrutiny.

"You will also hear testimony from a private investigator assigned to the case as well as the investigating officer, both of which will provide evidence of the involvement of the accused as well as the execution of the crime. Thank you."

Due to his formality, Christine half expected him to bow before returning to his seat.

But his demeanor was an effective tool, as she found her opinion of the defendant already muddying. Everyone was capable of terrible deeds, even ones who suffered through physical deformities and who made her feel such a sense of pity…

She stomped down her conclusions and reminded herself firmly that they were to suspend forming firm judgments until the evidence was given in its entirety. She would remain open minded and not allow herself to be swayed simply depending on who was talking. Lawyers were trained in the art of persuasion and she would _not _be a simpleton who merely believed whatever was spoken at her. She would use discernment and reasoning and, despite her reticence in being here at all, be the best juror she could.

Because it was impossible to ignore that a man's life hung in the balance.

"Mr. Chagny, would you care to provide your opening statement?"

The young man rose, wiping his palms on his pant legs before coming to stand before the jury box. He fiddled with his tie for a moment before taking a deep breath. He stood a bit taller and Christine sympathized with the difficulty he was having as he obviously tried to pull himself together. While she could sing in front of a crowd with little difficulty, she loathed speaking in front of others—and hadn't she been forced to address this very room only yesterday?

She shivered a little just remembering it.

But regardless of her commiseration, he had chosen a profession that required him to do so, and she hoped that he was actually qualified to defend this man.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," surprisingly his voice was steady, and Christine relaxed a bit hearing it, "the burden of proof lies with the prosecution. Not only must the State convince you that Edgar Poligny was murdered, but they must also unequivocally prove that my client was the one to pull the trigger. They must show that he was the one who, allegedly, harassed both Poligny and Debienne into making financial and artistic decisions at their theatre company that they would not have otherwise made. What this requires, ladies and gentlemen, is _proof._

"And that, I am afraid, after I have looked over all their so called evidence, is sincerely lacking. While an argument could be made that there were some mysterious events at the theatre, there is very little that can actually be connected to my client."

He turned slightly to the prosecution, his expression almost accusatory. "Yet here we are."

The judge interrupted. "Keep things civil, Mr. Chagny. You may be new to this, but I don't tolerate cheap shots in my courtroom."

He bowed his head, looking properly contrite, though Christine didn't really believe it. "My apologies your honor."

"The prosecution asks you to suspend your compassion in favor of the facts, but I would urge you to remember that the DA and the police department, while admirable agencies, are just as fallible as they rely on human judgment."

Christine shifted uncomfortably as he voiced her very concern. Who was she to sentence someone? Who were these other eleven people?

"My client is not a monster. My client is a man who has been unjustly accused of these crimes based on circumstantial evidence, and that cannot be tolerated—not in a justice system that relies on fact and evidence over bias and prejudice."

Christine's eye flickered to the accused, and for the first time she noted the small cuts and bruises that were half-healed on his pale flesh. She didn't know much about how the system worked, but she thought he was probably kept in jail until the trial was over. Weren't there guards who were meant to protect him from other inmates?

She hated to think how cruel some might be based solely on his face. From what she could tell of his body he looked frail and thin, not at all like he was capable of defending himself. His height was really the only imposing thing about him, and she doubted that would be enough to dissuade someone from hurting him if they so desired.

Richard leaned close to her, his voice only a whisper. "How do they expect us to keep from taking a face like that into account? Either he's a monster just like he appears to be, or he's a saint and this is all a big misunderstanding."

"I would remind the jury not to begin speaking until the deliberation has begun. For now you are here to listen and observe, not form conclusions." The judge gave a pointed glance in their direction. "_Or _interrupt my court with whispering."

Richard sat back sheepishly, and Christine's cheeks flamed from being caught—whether or not she had actively participated.

"Now, Mr. Sorelli, would you like to call your first witness?"

* * *

><p>Sooo… Opening statements, and next up, witnesses! Any preliminary thoughts on Erik's guilt or innocence? Mind you, the lawyers said to wait until you've heard all the fact before forming an opinion… but come on, we all get gut feelings. And it looks like at least one of Christine's managers isn't totally unreasonable… wonder who the owner is?<p>

I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, instead of whinging about the drop off in reviews (was it something I said?!) I will simply say who's ready to get this case started for real? Hmmm? Oh, and a heads up… I don't think I was overly graphic on the details, but be aware that this is a trial for murder so there will be discussion of gruesome… things. Now…

Onward!

* * *

><p>III<p>

"Of course, your honor. The prosecution calls Detective Alexander Mifroid to the stand."

Christine didn't know what she expected. Most of the police officers she had seen were the ones dragging runaways back to the group home, young, harried looking men and women with scowls on their faces for having to be back _again _to a place that anyone would have wanted to escape. She couldn't quite explain it but they had frightened her. But then, she was frightened of most things in those days—girls who envied her hair, her shoes… anything at all really_. _She especially hated having to pass the boy's hall on the way down to breakfast and having to hear all sorts of terrible things if any of the older ones caught sight of her.

Not all of them were so bad of course, especially the little ones. They had their own separate floor that was supposedly more _appropriate for their age. _Even through the haze of her own grief Christine could see the true purpose for the separate and barred sleeping arrangements. Many of the other children were not merely orphans, they had been taken from abusive homes. And clearly the staff feared that if left alone with younger, more vulnerable children, they would seek to do harm.

And those little ones had been so sweet. While the staff did their best to ensure their charges were safe and relatively contented, there was not enough love and affection to go around. None of the children were younger than five, and during free hours Christine would often sit with some of them, reading stories and giving hugs. It might not have soothed her own heart, but judging from some of their hopeful faces it eased some of their burdens, if only for a while, so she was happy to do it.

The officer that entered the courtroom was not young, but wasn't old either. And while the others in her experience had scowled, he merely looked… grim.

The bailiff approached had made the man swear to tell the truth, and there was something almost nonchalant in the way he raised his hand and made his vow. Obviously this was a man who had testified many times—so often that the reverence and nerves had all but dissipated.

Christine wondered if by the time the trial was finished she would be able to relax in her chair instead of holding her muscles taut, afraid that even the slightest slouch would result in a chastisement from the bench.

Mr. Sorelli rose, adjusting his tie briefly before approaching the witness stand. While the box itself had always been stationed near to the jurors, she had not really considered how close it truly was. Even though she was seated in the back row, they were almost too near—she could smell the cologne of the prosecutor, and she could see a few crumbs on the witness's uniform, evidence of a snack hastily consumed before court.

She wished she had been able to afford such a thing and she glanced down at her watch. Lunch would be called soon…

"Good morning, Detective Mifroid. For the sake of introductions would you mind telling the court how long you have been in homicide?"

The detective shifted slightly in his seat. "Fifteen years now."

"So would you say you are well educated in telling the difference between a suicide and a homicide?"

Mifroid looked mildly exasperated. "I wouldn't be doing my job if I couldn't tell that."

Mr. Sorelli smiled placidly. "Granted. When you were first called to the Poligny home on April third…"

"Fourth. The wife discovered the body the night of the third but I was not called to the scene until after midnight. That would make it the fourth."

Christine thought the prosecutor looked mildly annoyed at the interruption, but she rather appreciated the detective's attention to detail. She scribbled a little note on the legal pad clutched tightly in her hands.

"Very well, on the fourth of April you entered the Poligny home and what did you find there?"

"The wife was crying in the living room and one of the first responders was attempting to calm her down. The victim, sixty-one year old Edgar Poligny was found dead in his study, a single gunshot wound to the head. COD was confirmed later by the coroner."

Mr. Sorelli went to his desk and picked up a manila folder. "Exhibit A, your honor. Coroner's report after full autopsy was performed."

The judge accepted the document, quickly glancing at it. "Proceed."

"Did you notice anything unusual about the scene, Detective?"

Mifroid nodded. "The gun was positioned strangely in the victim's hand, and the fingerprints were a little _too _pristine. Usually when a gun undergoes normal cleaning and use there are many prints over the barrel as well as the handle, but this one only had a partial thumb and pointer."

"And those were consistent with Poligny's fingerprints?"

"They were."

"Was there anything else suspicious about the wound?"

"The angle had a slightly downwards trajectory. Typically when someone commits suicide they hold the gun at an upwards angle, either through the mouth," he demonstrated by putting two fingers to his lips, "or at the temple." This time he placed his fingers to the side of his head and mimicked pulling the trigger.

Christine flinched.

"For the bullet to enter from above is awkward in a self-inflicted wound, atypical in a suicide."

"At which point you began investigating it as a homicide?"

"Yes."

"Tell the court about the gun. Was it Mr. Poligny's?"

"That was when suspicions started getting confirmed. The gun was purchased by the victim almost three years ago. The wife told us that he had started receiving threatening notes and feared for his life."

Mr. Chagny rose. "Objection, your honor, hearsay."

The judge cleared his throat. "Did she see these notes herself?"

"Yes, your honor."

"The prosecution enters Exhibit B into the record, notes given to the police by Mrs. Poligny."

Richard leaned close to her and although she wanted to move away and scold him thoroughly, she could only stare straight ahead and hope he realized she did not want to be party to his disregard to the judge's previous reprimand.

"Do you think we'll get to see this stuff at some point? The judge just keeps taking it."

She shrugged ever so slightly. She did not own a television so she did not even have fictional courtrooms to help guide her during the trial.

"Very well, overruled. Sit down, Mr. Chagny."

He appeared a bit disgruntled but obeyed.

"What did these letters indicate to you?"

"Extortion. And in my experience, blackmail often leads to a death. Either the blackmailer offs the victim when they no longer choose to cooperate, or one day the victim has simply had enough and commits suicide. Either way, someone ends up dead and I have a case to solve."

The prosecutor turned to his desk and flipped through a legal pad of his own before turning back to the witness. "What led you to suspect the accused?"

The detective shifted in his chair, and Christine caught a brief glimmer of discomfort on his otherwise stoic features.

She made another scribble in her notepad.

"He was a hard one to track down. There weren't any unidentified prints in the victim's home, and while we had the letters and a sketchy looking suicide, there wasn't a lot of evidence of who could have actually committed a murder. Naturally we investigated the wife," his gaze flickered to the jury but he quickly righted his attention to the prosecution, "as you know, it's almost always the spouse, but we couldn't find much of a motive. And she would have had to overpower her husband and she's a slight little thing—didn't think it was likely given the crime scene."

Mr. Sorelli waved his hand to continue. "The accused."

"Ah, right. Well. Like I said, there wasn't much to go on, 'cause it's not like one of those damn TV shows where a hair fiber shows up and the case gets blown."

He paused, almost as if waiting for commiseration from the prosecutor who merely cocked an eyebrow at him in response. "Anyway, we were approached by a private investigator—Middle Eastern guy who suggested we take a more serious look at the victim's business affairs."

The judge interrupted. "Just to save Mr. Chagny the objection, this is the same investigator we will be hearing from later, correct? A Mr.… Abdul Nadir?"

"Yes, your honor."

Christine couldn't be sure but she thought the prosecutor sounded rather annoyed at yet another disruption. Wasn't it the judge's job to moderate a questioning? She wished she had some frame of reference on how all of this was supposed to work.

The detective cleared his throat after Mr. Sorelli bade him continue. "He said we'd have better luck finding our perp if we made some enquiries about the theatre as some… rumors often had a kernel of truth."

He said this with a tone of disbelief and an air of impatience. "Honestly, I thought it was a load of baloney but we had no other leads so I went over there with a couple of uniforms to interview some of the staff."

"_There _being the opera-house owned and operated by the late Edgar Poligny and his partner, Claude Debienne?"

"Correct."

"And what information was gathered at by your interviews?"

The detective's lips thinned. "These were theatre people if you get my drift. They gave lots of stories about ghosts and Death wandering the halls, and while they tried to look _fearful, _they so obviously thought it was all very funny and added to the overall excitement of their work. I was about to dismiss the whole thing and go back to the station until…" He hesitated, and Christine thought that underneath the gruffness, something about this case genuinely had disturbed him.

"Until?"

"Management had put up security cameras throughout the hallways and offices, hoping to catch whoever was dropping off the threatening letters. We reviewed the footage and there was nothing. One moment the desk would be clear, the next there was a letter, ready and waiting to be read."

"And what were the content of these letters?"

"Nothing much to anyone not involved in the theatre. Tweaks to the cast, choreography, things like that. But unless they were carried out, the _ghost _as he called himself, threatened numerous disasters."

"Nothing specific?"

"Not within the letters no, but the intent was fairly obvious. The staff was sure to regale me with all the accidents that had occurred since their new production started. It's hard to sift through normal mishaps and something more… intentional."

"But something eventually led you to suspect that someone was involved."

"Yes, a video. Apparently one of the chorus girls was frightened and got her boyfriend to film the rehearsal. It's grainy, but you can clearly see…"

The prosecutor stopped him. "Exhibit C, your honor. A clip shot by a Mr. Marcus Leibovitz on the twenty-second of March. We would like your permission to play it for the court."

Christine had not paid much attention to the large television on the far side of the room. It was quite expansive and she watched with interest as one of the bailiffs extended it from the wall to be more easily viewed by the jury.

The footage was grainy, and for a minute the clip was solely of the newest opera, and Christine forgot that they were attempting to identify a potential killer. Instead she tried to remember the pieces that her father had played, seeing if she could recognize which opera they were set to perform.

The music was beautiful, spritely and lively, and for a moment Christine wished she could have followed in her father's example and joined a company of her own.

But all too suddenly one of the elaborate backdrops plunged to the stage, and while the chorus screamed and the lead got caught beneath the stretch of heavy muslin and wood, amongst muffled expletives the boyfriend wildly scanned the upper registers for anything suspicious.

Until a figure all in black filled the screen, his body long and impossibly lean, a mask covering his face as he watched the chaos below.

The television switched off abruptly.

"So you're shown this video, but how did you know that it was actually the accused? After all, he _is _wearing a mask."

The detective was quiet for a moment. "The PI, Nadir, he… showed us where the defendant was apparently living. The mask from the video was there as was… he."

The way he hesitated, the way he resolutely refused to look at the man being accused, suggested to Christine that there was more to the situation. Her attention drifted to the defendant. His head was slumped as were his shoulders, and she could just make out the firm grip of his hands held within his lap.

Yet the prosecutor did not press for more information but instead sat down, a satisfied look on his face.

"Mr. Chagny, I'm afraid cross shall have to wait until after lunch. Hungry jurors don't make the best listeners so we shall reconvene in one hour. I will remind all of you that speaking about the trial is strictly prohibited outside of the jury room, so keep your opinions to yourselves. Court is in recess until then."

Christine had kept the top sheet of her legal pad blank so that she could be sure that no one could see her notes unless she offered them, and she set the papers to rights and stuffed it into her purse.

"Got any lunch plans?"

Christine pursed her lips as Richard addressed her, still slightly annoyed that he had continued to whisper to her during the trial.

"Yeah, I do. See you back in an hour."

She felt bad about being so curt as she hurried out of the courtroom, but she didn't know how to avoid talking about the case and she certainly couldn't afford any of the restaurants around here that he might want to try.

She went up one flight of stairs to avoid any of the personnel who might recognize her and fished her phone out of her purse.

It wasn't anything fancy, just the cheapest option she could find. It didn't do any of the newfangled things like she often saw patrons using, and she wouldn't have it at all except for when she realized that job applications required a provided phone number.

She flipped it open and turned it on, and to her great relief there was a message from the restaurant. She was nervous as the automated voice spoke into her ear, but the dread quickly released to almost hysterical relief.

"_Hi, Christine, it's Ewan. I talked with Carlotta and while she isn't happy about the arrangement, she's willing to give you a try on dinner service. You'll have to be here at six sharp and you'll work 'till closing, and your performance slot is at eight. You're a good worker, Christine, and I hope this will help you out. Just… don't be late and try your best. I want this to work out for you."_

Christine was ashamed to feel tears prickle at her eyes. Dinner provided the possibility of more tips as husbands and boyfriends treated their dates to expensive wines and desserts that were otherwise passed over during lunch.

There would be little time for anything else over the next few weeks between getting to the courthouse so early and going so quickly to work afterward, but it would be worth it. She would still have an income and that thought alone comforted her enough to traipse to a small sandwich store a few blocks away as she treated herself to one of the tasty looking options.

It felt good to have a few moments to herself to collect her thoughts. Her own troubles temporarily aside, she couldn't help but go over the bits of the trial she had seen thus far. There was something off about the detective, something that she hoped the defending attorney would uncover. They had been told the day before to focus only on the evidence put before them and put aside information that was skipped over or denied to them, but she didn't understand how she could form a proper conclusion when something was so obviously wrong.

She wanted to save part of her sandwich for later, but she knew that the meats would not hold up well to several more hours hidden away in her purse so she forced herself to eat until she was overly full, her stomach almost protesting the heavy feeling. But still, she was grateful for the meal as well as the brisk walk in the midday sun that staved off the crisp autumn air.

The court was late to begin yet again but it gave her time to give Ewan a quick call and thank him profusely for helping her.

Christine had thought that the quick walk back to the courthouse would have occupied her legs enough that she would be happy to sit for the rest of the afternoon. Instead she found the opposite to be true. She felt antsy and restless and she was almost grateful when the bailiff finally appeared and ushered them back to their seats, hopeful that the trial would distract her from her disquiet.

And then she felt horribly guilty for using a man's trial for murder as a distraction from her own impatience.

The defendant was still seated at the desk, his attorney beside him rifling through a large stack of disorganized folders. She wondered what he had for lunch. The accused's frame would suggest that he did not eat much and she found herself wanting to know if that was by choice or simply a lack of opportunity. Compassion swelled within her at the thought and she bit her lip against it, remembering the warning the prosecutor had given them about allowing empathy to cloud the facts.

She couldn't dream up a history for this man. She didn't know him or his past and making assumptions about it based on her own fantasies was wrong.

Christine pulled out her notepad and doodled about in the margins, wiling away time until the judge returned to resume the proceedings. Her drawings were typically dreadful, but she found that with enough strokes of her black pen lines that vaguely began to resemble flowers would eventually appear and she found them rather pleasing to look at.

Before long however she felt the prickle of someone watching her and she glanced at Richard from the corner of her eyes, thinking he wanted to speak to her again. But his attention was on the paperback crime novel resting in his lap, the only noise the gentle turn of the page every so often.

Her gaze returned to the accused—to Erik. No matter what the prosecutor said, it couldn't be wrong to remember he was more than a judicial identifier. He was a person with a name and conscience. He was a man, just like any other, if she lost sight of that then how could she hope to reach the proper conclusions?

His attention made her nervous and she quickly looked back at her doodles, but no matter how she told herself to ignore him—surely he would lose interest eventually—she found herself peeking upward to see if he still stared.

And every time he was.

He had placed his elbow on the table and held his head in his hand, peering at her with his strangely colorless eyes. While at first she had thought that his eyes were simply missing in the sunken nature of his skull, she realized now that they were merely heavily shadowed, making his stare all the more unsettling.

Her heart began to race from both nerves and curiosity, and although she reminded herself firmly that he was on trial for blackmail and _murder_, she felt her lips rise ever so slightly at the corners, a soft smile sent his way.

He made an awkward lurch as he forcefully turned away from her direction.

The judge entered the courtroom and after they once again rose in deference to his authority and returned to their seats, he bade the trial continue.

The detective returned to the witness stand and Mr. Chagny followed, standing directly before the officer.

Christine thought his tie was even uglier up close.

"Detective Mifroid, you say that the very mask from the video was discovered in my client's possession."

"That's correct."

"And how do you _know _that was the mask worn during the incident at the theatre?"

The detective's eyes narrowed. "The mask was fairly unique. The manufacturer is a high end designer and only makes a few of them a year."

"A few of them… meaning that other individuals in the country could have one."

"Not as many people in the country have as good a _reason_ to wear one."

Christine's eyes widened and she was glad to see Mr. Chagny's deep frown. "I will presume you are referring to the fact whoever was in that video was in the process of trespassing and wished to conceal his identity, and _not _suggesting that my client should be forced to hide his disfigurement."

The detective shrugged. "Take it however you want; I think we all know the truth." He glanced briefly at the jury and Christine wanted to retort in indignation that she would not make a foolish decision based solely on his appearance, but she forced herself to remain silent.

"So merely because my client possessed _a _mask from this manufacturer, you determined that he terrorized the opera house. And by extension, you presume that because of this alleged involvement, he was the one to enter the Poligny's home and dispatch with one of the homeowners."

"Objection, your honor, does Mr. Chagny have a question for the witness or is he wanting to testify himself?"

He looked ready to protest but the judge shushed him with a wave of his hand. "Sustained. Ask a question, Mr. Chagny or save this for closing arguments."

He grumbled something inaudible before returning his attention to the detective. "Is there in fact _any _direct evidence that my client was the one to kill Mr. Poligny?"

The detective scowled. "Sometimes a case isn't wrapped up in a neat little bow. Sometimes you have to infer what happened from what facts are available."

Mr. Chagny smiled thinly. "Answer the question, Detective Mifroid. Is there any direct evidence or is it merely circumstantial?"

"I suppose if you're going to use those exact terms, the evidence in this case is more circumstantial than direct."

Mr. Chagny's smile became far more genuine, and Christine briefly thought him handsome. "Thank you for your honesty, Detective. I have no further questions for this witness."

A clerk rose from her small desk and quietly climbed the steps up the judge and whispered in his hear, a sticky note in her hands.

He looked rather surprised before clearing his throat and addressing the room. "I am terribly sorry but I have an emergency that requires we stop for today. We shall convene again tomorrow at nine. Court is in recess."

And with that he hurried from the room, leaving a single bailiff to shuffle the rest of the bewildered occupants from the courtroom.

But as Christine shuffled past the defense table she couldn't help but glance once more at Erik, and this time he met her gaze, a small smile on his own lips that looked terribly rusty and unsure.

And she could do nothing but offer one in return.

* * *

><p>Sooo… a smile! That's a start at least, right?<p>

Do you think that was Erik's mask? Do you think it's fair that he isn't allowed to wear one during the trial?

I probably should have mentioned this before, but reviews get a snippet from the next chapter! I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	4. Chapter 4

Just spent the day babysitting 12 month old twin girls… I'll just pass out now…

But first! I'm sorry, I should have done this before but to those of you who do _not _spend inordinate amounts of time watching crime shows, here's a quick glossary of terms I have/will/may use throughout the trial.

COD: Cause of death

ME: Medical examiner

PI: Private investigator

Perp: Perpetrator

I'm trying to stick with more "realistic" dialogue which includes the lingo. I can't think of any more at the moment… but if you see one and don't know what it means, don't hesitate to ask!

But for now… Onward!

* * *

><p>IV<p>

Christine couldn't stop thinking about the shy smile the defendant—_Erik—_had given her the day before. Already she could see how difficult it would be for her to remain completely impartial as her heart went out to him and his innocent demeanor. That didn't mean he wasn't guilty of some sort of crime, she was not so naive as to believe that, but there was something almost childlike and bashful about him that stirred an emotion deep within her.

And so far she had been unable to identify what it was.

Despite her preoccupation with thoughts of Erik, she had slept remarkably well the night before. She was grateful for the sleep as starting today she didn't know when she would feel rested again. Between the trial and dinner service she was likely to be utterly exhausted before long, but she was grateful for the work all the same.

She walked through the door of the courthouse and the security guard smiled at her before rifling through her proffered purse. He quirked an eyebrow at her curiously at the lumpy addition of her work uniform to her already full bag. "Big plans later?"

She laughed dryly. "Hardly. Just moonlighting as a waitress now that I've found my true calling as a juror."

The guard chuckled, passing her bag back to her. "Pity. A girl like you should be out having fun with a boyfriend after having to listen to all this morbid stuff."

Before she could respond and ask how he had known to which jury she belonged, another person stepped through the metal detector and his attention was diverted.

The guard was middle aged and a wedding ring adorned his hand so she didn't think he was trying to be flirtatious—if anything he seemed genuinely concerned for her.

She sighed, wondering what it would be like to have a man to count on—to take her to restaurants and buy her flowers, and think she was something special.

Christine sank onto the same step she had frequented the day before and brushed away a tear hurriedly.

She knew what that was like because her papa had loved her so, and still she carried an ache in her heart from the loss of him.

People always looked at her oddly when she confessed she had never been on a date before. She did not think that twenty-one was really so terribly old, but she supposed that many had dated and been in relationships throughout high school. Her papa had always told her to wait until she was older and to, "Leave those boys at school to percolate a little before you think about accepting a date. They don't know anything about life yet, least of all how to treat you right."

She had believed him.

Some people even accused her of lying about her lack of experience—though who would actually do that she didn't know—while others offered unnecessary assurances that the right man would come along some day. She had not meant to imply that none had offered, but every time she even considered getting close to a man, especially in a romantic sense, she became all the more aware that she wouldn't survive losing another that she loved.

So she would politely stutter through a rejection, always feeling guilty at the sad smile left on a once hopeful face.

Unlike the day before, the court convened much closer to the appointed time—although a reason for the abrupt ending to yesterday's proceedings was not supplied. While the judge still frightened her, she did hope that if the note had indicated a family emergency that it hadn't been anything _too _serious, and not simply because the added strain would make him even more gruff and intimidating.

She knew what an unexpected death meant, and she wished it upon no one.

The judge briskly entered the courtroom, waving off the bailiff before he could even attempt to announce him and bid everyone rise. "It is my hope that we can get through quite a bit of testimony today so let's skip over the niceties, shall we? Counselor, your next witness?"

The prosecutor looked a little startled but covered it quickly as he stood behind his desk. "Of course, your honor. The State calls Mr. Abdul Nadir to the stand."

Christine had avoided glancing in Erik's direction so far, knowing that her steadily growing compassion for him would impede her judgment if she allowed it to. But even so, she couldn't help stealing a single peek and for some inexplicable reason she was almost disappointed that he wasn't looking at her with that small hint of expectation as he had yesterday. Instead, he was staring at the man approaching from the waiting room, Erik's expression almost one of… annoyance?

Only a few days ago he had seemed nearly catatonic as he stared down at the empty desk top, and she wondered if his sudden emotionality was a positive thing or not.

After the witness had been sworn in, the prosecutor approached, a polite smile on his face. "Good morning, Mr. Nadir. Thank you for joining us here this morning."

The judge cleared his throat. "I said we were _dispensing _with niceties, Mr. Sorelli. I can assure you I was including you in that statement. Let's get to the testimony."

Christine saw a flicker of a scowl cross the prosecutor's face but he hid it quickly. "Yes, your honor." He turned back to the witness. "What is your relationship with the accused?"

Mr. Nadir shifted slightly in his seat, his eyes moving toward Erik briefly. Erik had stopped looking at him, but almost in a pointed manner—something that apparently did not go unnoticed by Mr. Nadir, who frowned faintly.

"I was… _am… _his friend of many years."

Christine made another note at the almost wistful way he referred to Erik. No matter the facts of this case, it was obvious that something personal was involved and she was uncertain how that would influence the ruling.

"And what is your profession?"

"I am a private investigator by trade."

"Please explain to the court how you came to be employed by the late Mr. Poligny and Mr. Debienne."

Mr. Nadir leaned back in chair, his hands steepled in a mimicry of relaxation. "I was approached by those two gentlemen after some of the stagehands complained about props going missing. Nothing overly troublesome, in my opinion, but in conjunction with the letters and threats they received, they were beginning to become nervous."

"Objection, your honor, the witness cannot attest to their state of mind."

"Did they specifically _tell _you that they were growing nervous about the letters?"

Mr. Nadir gave a half-shrug. "In my experience, men rarely admit so bluntly when they are afraid. In the case of Mr. Poligny, he preferred to refer to my services as a 'safety precaution'."

"Hm… objection sustained."

The prosecutor grunted. "Very well then. When you actually began investigating at the opera house, what did you begin to uncover? Was it simply carelessness on behalf of the staff or was someone behind the mishaps?"

The witness shook his head. "Not all of it. The incidents were too frequent and too precise to have merely been accidents. No one was ever injured, which in it of itself was rather suspicious if negligence was at work." He glanced in Erik's direction. "Some know how to create fear without physical harm."

Christine made a note how Mr. Nadir's words had no effect on Erik's expression.

"So the nature and result of the supposed _accidents _led you to believe that someone was behind them?"

"That is correct, especially when…"

The prosecutor quirked an eyebrow at Mr. Nadir's hesitation.

The man sighed. "I uncovered a tunnel within one of the dressing rooms. It was filled with various traps and I… unfortunately managed to trigger one of them. Erik came to look into it almost immediately."

"And how did you know it was him? Was his face uncovered?"

Mr. Nadir chuckled dryly. "There is no mistaking Erik, mask or no. He can be quite… unsettling when it so pleases him."

Christine tried to look at Erik critically. There was nothing pleasing about his face, that was absolutely certain, yet all she could think about was the trembling smile he had given her and her heart quickened yet again. Yet pushing that aside, she was certain that if she was within the confines of a darkened tunnel and a man of his great height approached with a mask covering his face, she would be thoroughly intimidated.

The prosecutor appeared almost excited by Mr. Nadir's response. "Were you afraid that he would hurt you? That you life was in jeopardy?"

He frowned. "Our relationship is… complex. Erik has threatened to kill me many times over the years but if you are asking if I truly believed he would carry out that threat, my answer would be no."

Mr. Sorelli was mildly surprised. "Really? You were in a dark tunnel, your whereabouts unknown to any other person, and you admit that you had stumbled into a booby trap already, yet you did not believe that the man responsible would _harm _you?"

This time there was a hard edge to the man's voice, and Christine found it a curious change. "Erik has had a difficult past, and I expect him to respond defensively. I had intruded upon his home and I was prepared for him to react to that invasion."

The prosecutor scoffed. "His _home. _If the other charges were not already so severe I would have added trespassing to the list of offenses!"

"Objection!"

"Withdrawn, your honor."

The judge pointed accusingly at Mr. Sorelli. "Counselor, you will keep a civil tongue in my courtroom. Now is not the time to confuse the jury with additional accusations.

"My apologies to the Court."

Christine's opinion of the prosecution was rapidly diminishing. His suit might be very fine and he exuded competence, but there was something… arrogant about him that made her question his own biases. While of course an attorney must strive to do their job as proficiently as possible, he seemed to relish the notion of Erik being put away.

Did that mean by the end of the case his guilt would be more than clear or was Mr. Sorelli merely blinded by his prejudice?

She hoped something concrete would provide her an answer.

"You previously stated that you have known the accused for many years. Did you suspect him to be involved before you accepted this case from the victim and his partner?"

Mr. Nadir shook his head. "Not at all. I was not even aware Erik was within the state. It was uncommon for us to be in contact for any significant duration and he moved frequently, but as things began to happen within the theatre I did begin to suspect that perhaps he was involved."

"Thus you began to search for secret tunnels hidden in the walls?"

The witness smirked. "Just exploring every eventuality. If it was indeed Erik who was _haunting_ the theatre, it would not be unheard of that he would make certain… alterations to the structure to suit his needs. Or at the very least he would exploit whatever tunnels and hidden passages had been boarded up over the years."

"So your suspicions were confirmed when you did in fact locate the accused within one such tunnel."

Mr. Nadir simply nodded.

"And what was the nature of your conversation? Did he reveal any of his plans to you?"

"It wasn't like that. He told me how surprised he was to see me in the city and asked why I had wandered into such 'an unpleasant little hole.' Then he released me from the trap and suggested I restrict my coming to the opera during performances."

"Yet you didn't take that as a threat?"

Mr. Nadir looked at the prosecutor incredulously. "He had just pulled me from a coffin made of concrete. If anything I would call it a word of wisdom, not a threat against my person."

Christine jotted down another notation in her notepad. Why was he a witness for the prosecution when he seemed nearly… reluctant in his testimony?

Mr. Sorelli returned to his desk, rifling through one of the neatly stacked folders. "In your official police statement you confirmed that Erik was a danger to the theatre and its patrons. Would you like to amend that account?"

With an almost pained look upon his face, Mr. Nadir shook his head. "Erik can be unstable. When I heard about the death of Mr. Poligny I knew that something had gone terribly wrong. Erik likes to be valued and obeyed and if they crossed him…"

He trailed off and hung his head, but Mr. Sorelli wouldn't allow his declaration to go unfinished. "What, Mr. Nadir? What would he do?"

The man's voice was quiet but the microphone placed upon the rail of the witness stand made his words perfectly audible to the jury. "It would not be beyond my belief that Erik would kill someone should they flout what he considers his authority. He is a brilliant musician, of that there is no question, and to him it might seem that he was… _helping _the theatre with his interference. If they disregarded him, I could see how he would become… enraged. I'm sure I don't need to tell you what men are capable of when they lose their tempers."

Mr. Sorelli smirked. "No, you certainly don't." He glanced back down at the folder before walking back to the witness stand. "What prompted you to make Erik's presence known to Detective Mifroid?"

Mr. Nadir was silent for a long moment, and it was plain to Christine that he was choosing his words with the utmost care.

What was it about Erik that made these witnesses so careful with their testimony?

So long was he quiet that the judge intervened. "Did you not understand the question, Mr. Nadir? For I would remind you that you are under oath and it is required that you give an answer."

He swallowed thickly. "We had an… altercation. I wasn't satisfied that Mr. Poligny's death was an accident and when I asked Erik about it he laughed. He said that sometimes men were forced to take extreme action when they were cheated. He was so… withdrawn, far more than usual, and I knew then that something was terribly wrong and felt it necessary to contact the police."

Christine frowned down at her notepad. If the case for extortion was true, his comment would make sense if the victim had ignored his demands and he had grown angry. She hadn't even been to that particular opera house but she had heard her father complain about management at his own theatre enough times to know how frustrating musicians could find businessmen who thought they understood the arts.

But to take a man's life because of it?

This time when she glanced at Erik he was staring at her. He did not try to smile at her and for that she was glad because she didn't think she could muster up even the semblance of one for him, not when she felt such disappointment at his apparent confession.

They eventually broke for lunch and Christine dug through her purse collecting what few coins remained to raid the vending machine for something resembling food of nutritional value. The granola bar was hard and sticky, but she forced herself to eat it, feeling strangely despondent as she sat on her lonely step and wished that things could be different.

She made a quick trip to the water fountain and ladies' room before court resumed for cross examination.

Christine couldn't wait for the hurried dinner service to take her mind off the trial.

Mr. Chagny approached the witness stand, smoothing down his electric blue tie as he went. Christine decided that focusing on the way it remarkably brought out the color in his eyes was far preferable to trying to decide if Erik was indeed the murderer he was accused of being.

"When my client made this comment to you allegedly in reference to the victim, did you believe it to be a confession of his guilt?"

Mr. Nadir's face took on a pinched appearance. "Clearly, otherwise I wouldn't have involved the police."

Mr. Chagny's expression turned into one of mock surprise. "Really? Tell me, in this apparent friendship of yours, how do you see yourself?"

The witness's head cocked to the side. "I'm afraid I do not understand the question."

The defense council smiled thinly. "Pardon me, allow me to rephrase. Do you believe that my client is a good man? Do you believe the best of him or do you think that it is your responsibility to keep him in 'check' as it were?"

"Objection. Is there a point to all of this?"

Mr. Chagny turned to the judge. "I assure you there is, your honor."

The judge waved his hand. "Keep it snappy, Mr. Chagny. Continue."

"My question is the same, Mr. Nadir."

His brow furrowed, his tone thoughtful. "I think that… Erik is the product of some horrific experiences." He glanced at the jury. "As you can imagine he hasn't been… widely accepted by the world due to his deformities. Because of this I worry for his conscience and do try to steer him toward being more compassionate to others."

It happened so quickly that she may have imagined it but Christine could have sworn that Erik gave the tiniest of eye rolls.

She made a note of it.

Mr. Sorelli stood quickly. "Your honor, surely Mr. Chagny is not going to suggest that a murder charge can be dismissed because someone had a rotten childhood."

The judge glanced at the defense. "Well? Is that your intention?"

Mr. Chagny barely suppressed a huff of irritation. "Of course not, your honor. If the prosecution would allow me to finish he would have a much better understanding of my case."

The judge sighed. "Mind your tone, Mr. Chagny and sit down Mr. Sorelli. You may proceed."

The defense council took a brief moment to collect himself before returning his attention to the witness. "You said that you were concerned for my client's conscience. Is this because you believe him to be incapable of empathy?"

Mr. Nadir's lips thinned. "I didn't say that."

"In fact, you testified earlier that these 'accidents' around the theatre resulted in no injuries… that, allegedly, they were specifically designed so that none would be harmed. If my client were in fact the one to have orchestrated these events, does that sound like someone who cares nothing for the wellbeing of human life?"

Christine certainly didn't think so. Someone callous and selfish didn't care who they hurt, they were solely preoccupied by their own interests.

Like the man who had killed her papa.

It was too inconvenient for him to leave his car at the bar and hail a taxi home. So instead he decided to risk the lives of everyone around him and drive while severely impaired—and she would live with the grief of that choice for the rest of her life.

"No, it doesn't."

Christine couldn't help but notice the genuine surprise on the man's face as he made the admission. She was not an expert on friendship by any stretch of the imagination. There had been one girl she was fairly close to in the group home, but Meg had aged out of the system much sooner than Christine and they had lost touch. But what she did know was that it was important to think well of people, especially if you considered them your friend, and it seemed odd to her that this man would be so surprised that Erik was not as cruel as he supposed.

Perhaps more than the jury needed to be reminded that Erik was not a monster.

Mr. Chagny's voice gentled and he took a small step forward. "Could it be that your past experience with my client has influenced your expectation of him? That maybe you heard what you wanted to hear instead of what he actually meant?"

The witness shook his head slowly. "I didn't _want _him to have committed this crime!"

"I would not suggest that you did. Only that sometimes when we expect certain things from someone, we have a funny way of making them come true."

Mr. Nadir's expression hardened. "When the police and I travelled further into the tunnels we located a room which appeared to be where Erik was living. There were masks there, one identical to the one the man wore in the video. I hardly think it fair to suggest that I made all of that up!"

The defense attorney backed away slightly his hands raised placating. "I wouldn't presume you did. I only suggested that your perception of what these things _meant _could be tainted by your history with this man."

The judge interrupted. "Jurors, just to make things clear, certain details of this witness's testimony have been deemed unfit for your hearing as they could unduly influence your opinion of the accused. You are to base your decision on the evidence presented in _this _case, not any alleged past wrongdoing. Understood?"

The jury murmured their assent before the judge motioned for Mr. Chagny to continue.

"Would you say that your confidence in my client's guilt is based more on intuition or in evidence? And please, consider your answer carefully before speaking."

Mr. Nadir appeared slightly resentful but to his credit he did seem to weigh his words carefully. "My experience in this profession has taught me many things and while I do fully believe that Erik is guilty… I will admit that instinct plays a large part in that assurance."

Mr. Chagny nodded, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Thank you, Mr. Nadir; I have no further questions for this witness."

The witness left without even a parting glance in Erik's direction.

And with a heavy heart Christine found herself wondering how Erik must have been treated by the rest of the world if he could so easily be discarded by a man who called himself Erik's friend.

* * *

><p>Sooo… Who's mad at the Persian? Do you think he could have a good reason for "betraying" Erik by testifying? Or should we just string him up right now? After all, is <em>any <em>reason good enough? I'll give you a hint, my answer is no…

But we'll have to wait and see if he can at least provide an attempt at a good enough reason…

Also, anyone notice that's the first time in a story I've given him a name? This is certainly the story of firsts for me!

Please review!


	5. Chapter 5

Umph, putting on a luncheon at church has left me exhausted so I shall simply say thank you for reading and reviewing and alerting and favoriting and know that I love hearing from you! Makes eeking out my last bits of energy to write and post all the more worth it.

Onward!

* * *

><p>V<p>

Christine was exhausted.

Dinner service was surprisingly smooth, although she was not entirely sure she liked having more couples to serve rather than the business clientele she was used to. On more than one occasion she received dirty looks from wives and girlfriends should they catch their significant other staring at her scant cleavage as she placed his order down on the table, and one time a woman had followed her to the kitchen to yell about how inappropriately she was dressed as she demanded another server.

Ewan had stepped in immediately and demanded she leave before allowing Christine a few moments in the office to collect herself before returning to finish her shift.

The last few days of the trial had been a bit more tedious. They had a DNA expert that had been called that confirmed that sweat found on the masks discovered in the opera house had been worn by Erik. A few of the performers had even offered testimony, claiming to have seen him wandering about the halls or peeping into dressing rooms.

"His eyes glow in the dark, you know!" Miss Jammes was a dancer at the theatre, or so she had stated. "I saw him watching me after rehearsal one night, staring as I took off my leotard."

Christine had glanced at Erik, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Miss Jammes had initially shuddered when she walked past him to the witness stand, but her eyes were quick to stare at him, repulsion and fascination overtaking her in equal measure.

She felt a little sorry that she had such a difficult time believing that the girl had been subjected to such things, but she was fairly certain that if one _had _suffered a frightening experience such as seeing a man—or a ghost as Miss Jammes had initially insisted—there, it would not induce the level of excitement she displayed. Genuine fear, certainly, or perhaps indignant outrage at having endured such an invasion, but not a thrill.

Her weekend had been fairly quiet and since she had no shifts to occupy her time she had spent most of it sleeping. A trip to the grocer had been the most exciting excursion and she happily noted that it was a less stressful experience when one had extra tips to help pay for necessities.

But the following week had negated her restful weekend and she was back to feeling exhausted and worn out. She felt horribly guilty about almost nodding off the day before, and she even risked the murmured _thank you _to Richard for prodding her gently on the arm so she had not further embarrassed herself. Erik deserved a proper trial, not one tainted because she couldn't keep her eyes open.

He hadn't looked at her for quite a while now. Sometimes she thought she felt his eyes on her but every time she checked, he was once more staring at the desk before him. At first she wondered if she had done something to offend him but then chastised herself thoroughly for such thoughts. She was on the jury for his _murder _trial, and now was not the time to be making friends with the accused.

The judge had been acting strangely for almost a week now. They never did disclose what emergency had called him away, but one of the other jurors said she overheard the bailiff's talking and they seemed to think that something strange had happened to his daughter, but no one knew exactly what.

Today they were listening to a Mr. Joseph Buquet regale the jury with a near death experience at the hands of an alleged madman.

"What is your position at the opera house, Mr. Buquet?"

He pushed a lock of greasy hair away from his cheek and Christine grimaced. While she tried to think the best of people, truly she did, she valued a kempt appearance, and there was something… off… about this witness. His eyes were too bright, his smile nearly menacing, and although she was ashamed to admit it, she didn't think she would have any difficulty believing that _he _was capable of peeping in at women's dressing rooms.

"I'm the senior stagehand for the theatre. Worked there fifteen years and seen a lot of funny business up in the rafters too."

Mr. Sorelli smiled. "I'm certain you have. But what have you seen about this man in particular?"

Mr. Buquet glared at Erik, his lips pulled back almost in a snarl. "Was toward the end of last season. I was a little late checking the rigging and one of the scenes dropped and when I went to investigate, I saw _this _man," he pointed a gnarled and dirty finger in Erik's direction, "standing there all smug before he dropped a letter onto the stage below."

"And what happened next, Mr. Buquet?"

The man coughed noisily into a gray rag that he tucked back into a pocket. "I ran forward to catch him. I wanted to be sure management knew that I wasn't to blame for the scene fallin' and I won't lose this job!"

Mr. Sorelli nodded in sympathy. "Would you say that you got a good look at the man?"

Mr. Buquet scoffed. "I'd certainly say so! The man tried to strangle me! A rope came out of nowhere and went about my neck and his eyes came up all close, glaring and hissing like the demon he truly is. I'd swear on my good mother's grave it was that man sittin' right there."

Christine didn't know if his mother was really good or not, but she still didn't think he should be swearing on her grave.

"How did you get away?"

"Not because of some sense of mercy, I can tell you that! I must have managed to make some ruckus because George, uh, another stagehand came running up and must have scared the devil off because the next thing I knew I could breathe and George was askin' me if I was alright."

The prosecutor's face took on a look of apparent concern but Christine thought he merely appeared rather sick. "And were you? Did you see a physician to assess your injuries?"

Mr. Chagny rose swiftly. "Your honor, not that I am unsympathetic to any injury this man has sustained over the course of his long… service," Christine was not oblivious to the slight look of distaste that the defense attourney had for the witness, "I must ask what the relevance is to this case. My client has been charged with the murder of Mr. Poligny, not an assault upon this man."

Mr. Sorelli was quick to argue. "I beg to differ, your honor, this clearly relates a pattern of violent behavior that could easily have escalated to homicide if not for the intervention of another."

The judge's lips pursed. "Proceed carefully, Mr. Sorelli. The accused is indeed charged with only one murder, and I won't have you misleading the jury with tales of an unsubstantiated crime that wasn't even reported."

Mr. Sorelli grumbled lowly before repeating his question to the witness.

Mr. Buquet glanced at the judge briefly before looking downward and shifting slightly in his seat. "Uh, no. Doctors are expensive, and other than a bruise on my neck there was hardly any need to involve a... hospital."

Christine could understand someone's fear of hospitals—she doubted that anyone truly _enjoyed _being forced to visit one, especially when a hefty bill was soon to follow with possibly no savings to cover the expense. But there was something about this man's demeanor that suggested that the cost was not necessarily what concerned him most about seeking medical assistance.

She made a quick note of it.

Eventually the prosecutor sat and the judge allowed Mr. Chagny to proceed with questioning.

It was a testament to how her life had changed that one of her favorite moments of the day was seeing what interesting tie and shirt combination Mr. Chagny selected. Today he favored an almost sickly green shirt, the tie a swirling mass of silver and whites with the occasional shocking emerald dot to offset the otherwise pale colors.

Christine wondered where on earth he found such strange clothing.

"Mr. Buquet, it must be difficult for you to recount such a harrowing tale."

"Objection!"

The judge sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Chagny, I realize you are fairly new to the law, but sarcasm is not a way to win a case."

He nodded his head in apparent supplication. "My apologies, your honor."

Christine wondered at what point Mr. Chagny would run out of the apologies he so readily gave and the judge would simply throw him out of court.

She would miss his ties if it came to that.

But then she tried not to giggle when he flicked his hair slightly off his shoulder before making another attempt at examining the witness.

And for the first time that day when she looked in Erik's direction he met her gaze; a small frown on his face. Did he not like her smiling at Mr. Chagny's eccentricities?

Despite his disapproving expression, she was gratified to see that the bruises that had adorned his features when the trial first began had all but disappeared and no new ones had taken their place.

Hopefully that meant he was now in safer accommodations, wherever that might be.

"Mr. Buquet, do you have a drug problem?"

The witness glared as the prosecutor rose in protest. "Your honor, this is hardly relevant!"

Mr. Chagny appeared nonplussed. "It goes to the character of the witness, which I believe highly relevant since his testimony apparently suggests a violent streak within my client."

Christine thought that the judge rolled his eyes as the vehement display by the counselors before he waved his hand. "You may proceed, but let's leave behind the theatrical objections, shall we? This isn't a courtroom drama."

Both men murmured their assents before Mr. Chagny asked his question again.

"I most certainly don't have a drug problem."

Mr. Chagny returned to his desk and placed a folder before the witness. "Do you know what this is?"

Mr. Buquet glanced at it dismissively. "Some kind of report."

The defense attorney smiled almost mockingly. "Very good, Mr. Buquet. In fact it's an arrest report from July of this year. _Your _arrest report."

"I'm sorry, your honor, but the witness is not on trial here. Even a man with an alleged drug abuse problem can experience an act of violence!"

"Just sit down, Mr. Sorelli. Your indignant outrage is noted."

He huffed in his chair and Christine didn't miss the triumphant smirk on Mr. Chagny's face.

"That was all just a misunderstanding. The meth wasn't mine."

"Of course it wasn't. But in fact you were arrested and charged, and are awaiting a trial of your own, isn't that correct?"

Mr. Buquet scowled. "I'm not talking about that without my lawyer!"

Mr. Chagny raised his hands defensively. "I would by no means ask you to incriminate yourself. But you mentioned that you were concerned that if the theatre discovered you had neglected your duties you would be fired. Tell me, are you in fact still employed at the opera house?"

The scowl deepened. "No."

"And what was the nature of your termination?"

He huffed impatiently. "Some falsified drug test. One of the junior stagehands was jealous of my position and framed me. I got fired 'cause of him!"

"You got fired because of testing positive of methamphetamine use," Mr. Chagny corrected, though Christine supposed because of the slight rise in his tone toward the end that he was disguising it as a question so Mr. Sorelli wouldn't interrupt again.

"That's the official reason. Didn't get no severance because of it either."

Mr. Chagny shook his head in a semblance of sympathy. "Are you aware that prolonged use of methamphetamine can lead to heightened paranoia and hallucinations?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Your honor, I would like to submit into the record an affidavit from a Mrs. Mildred Buquet, mother of the witness, who swears that she has witnessed methamphetamine use by her son for almost a decade."

"Don't you bring my mother into this!"

"Your honor, I must repeat, the witness is not on trial!"

All of this was spoken at once and eventually the judge was forced to quiet the communal outburst with swift use of his gavel. "All of you sit_ down _and be quiet!"

So loud and firm was his voice that Christine cringed a little inside, hoping that she would never be faced with hearing such instruction directed at her.

This time he did not give either of the attorneys permission to continue questioning the witness but instead turned to the man himself. "Mr. Buquet, I believe I understand where Mr. Chagny is going. Is there anyone that can substantiate the attack on your person? This… George perhaps?"

Mr. Buquet rolled his eyes. "We all thought this madman was a _ghost._ Of course he disappeared before anyone else saw him! Only I was a threat enough that he would try to kill me, I'd seen him blackmailing the managers."

The judge frowned. "So you believe that in no way were you faculties… compromised during this alleged event?"

"I didn't imagine it, that's for sure! It was painful as all hell and I know it was that rat bastard that did it to me!"

The judge coughed slightly. "Alright, that's enough; I think we've heard enough from this witness. You may step down, Mr. Buquet."

The clerk stepped forward and she and the judge spoke quietly for a few moments and Christine was grateful as it allowed her time to write out a few of her thoughts about the rather strange Mr. Buquet. One glance at his teeth suggested that there was nothing _alleged _about his drug use, and she rather thought that a doctor should take a look at his lungs as there was something terrible about the way they rattled.

But could he really have imagined himself being attacked? He had said that it was a demon that tried to kill him, yet he was also emphatic that it was Erik. Didn't they say that Erik typically wore a mask?

She was terribly confused, and she remembered how adamant during their initial questioning of the jury that they be able to suspend formulating their opinion until the end.

But her intuition screamed that Mr. Buquet was not to be trusted, and how could she ignore that? Of course it was perfectly reasonable that he should deny any drug use as surely the transcripts of this trial could be used for his own, but what if he had lied about being attacked at all merely to avoid facing blame for neglecting his job when an accident had occurred?

Christine wished that she could at least talk to the other jurors and see if any felt as she did, for at the moment she was confused and isolated and no matter how much she scribbled on her notepad she kept returning to the first page and what she had scrawled along the top line.

_Erik is not a monster._

It seemed silly really to keep coming back to such a simple thing. But the more testimony she heard, the more she believed it, and she hoped—_prayed—_that she wasn't just being gullible.

"Off for the day then, Miss Christine?" She was a little surprised that the same security guard from the morning shift was still there once the court dismissed for the day, but she smiled at him tiredly, although a small feeling of unease prickled that he knew her name.

"I suppose I am. The judge seems to be in a worse mood every day, and apparently can only take so much bickering between the attorneys." She hesitated, trying to gather the courage to ask how he knew of her, but he cut in quickly.

"You've been looking a little tired the past few days; it's not good for a girl your age."

She grimaced ruefully. "I would tend to agree with you but I've got to work the late shift to make ends meet." So many tables, so many people she met in a day, yet this man acted as though they were somehow acquainted…

"Oh! Have I served you before? It's just… you know my name and I couldn't think how…"

His smile seemed a bit forced, but he nodded all the same. "Yes, it's hard to forget a face like yours."

She highly doubted that but she felt reassured that there wasn't anything nefarious at work. If he recognized her then it was simple enough that he would ask one of the court clerks which trial she was on—nothing suspicious about that.

"Well, have a good evening then, I've got to get across town."

His lips thinned for a moment before he leaned across the counter dividing them, his expression grim. "Please be careful, Miss Christine."

The feeling of alarm returned. "What do you mean?"

He sighed and took a step back. "Nothing. You just seem very alone in the world and I would hate for someone to take advantage."

His tone suggested more of a warning than a personal threat but still she hastened out the door and kept careful watch of her surroundings as she took the bus to work.

There was nothing unusual about the homeless man that approached her begging for change before cursing at her when she tried to explain that she had none. Or about the well dressed business man who bumped into her a block from the restaurant, giving her a half-hearted apology before carrying on his way—regardless of the fact that her purse had spilled open and she had to scramble for items before they were trampled by pedestrian feet.

Just as always, it made her feel invisible.

And while sometimes she relished in her aloneness, sometimes she wished that someone would just _see _her. See the girl whose parents had died too early, see the young woman who struggled every day to ensure she had enough money for a place to live and food to eat. And most importantly, see the person who just wanted to be loved.

She changed quickly into her uniform in a bathroom stall, being careful to ensure that nothing fell and no unprotected bit of skin touched the tile floor. She knew that Ewan had convinced Carlotta to employ a very proficient cleaning staff to come in after hours but Christine wasn't about to take any chances.

Her shift went smoothly enough. No one yelled at her and the head chef even let her have an untouched ramekin of crème brûlée that one of the diners had sent back for appearing too sugary.

Not that they'd even tasted it to find out.

Christine thought they were ridiculous as she savored every bit of crunchy topping and sweet custard, but she was grateful for their finicky tastes all the same as it meant she got to enjoy an unexpected treat.

She was therefore unprepared for when Ewan called her into the office, and she was doubly nervous to see Carlotta sitting at the desk.

"Hello, Christine. Have a seat."

Christine wiped her hands nervously on her black uniform pants before doing as she was told.

"Is there a problem?"

"Have you asked any of your tables to contact me?"

Christine's brow furrowed. There was nothing she would have been _less _likely to do. Hardly anyone ever contacted management with a glowing review and she would certainly do anything in her power to keep them from complaining about her service.

"No, ma'am, I haven't." She swallowed. "Did I do something wrong? I don't remember anybody in particular complaining about my service…" Not wholly true but that was more about her as a person and cheating spouses and not her promptness to bring more wine and supply their order.

Carlotta clicked her fingers on the desktop, her gaze still one of suspicion. She stared for a long moment before sighing and shoving a handful of letters in Christine's direction. "Do you recognize those?"

They were all in differing handwritings, some far more legible than others. She pushed them back gently. "No."

"So you didn't write them?"

Christine's mouth dropped open. "Why would I complain about myself?"

Carlotta collected the letters and shoved them into the bottom desk draw, clicking her tongue all the while. "I never said they were complaints, Christine. Evidently some of your regulars from lunch have started coming for dinner service and want to know why you no longer sing."

Christine thought she could breathe again, though her befuddlement still remained. She knew people enjoyed her performances but not enough to come specifically to see her.

She swallowed. "I had no expectations, ma'am. I'm grateful you even let me try dinner service at all and I respect that you have rules about seniority on who gets to perform."

Carlotta's lips thinned. "Quite."

Ewan cut in after glancing at both ladies, both unwilling to speak next. "In an effort to keep our regulars happy Carlotta has agreed to put you on rotation starting next week. It's just a test run of course and you'll still go back to lunches when your trial is over. We wanted to be sure you had the weekend to prepare."

Christine nodded numbly. She missed singing, but she was too overwhelmed with the strange turn this conversation had taken to do anything but thank them both politely and head home in a near daze.

And it wasn't until the next morning that she noticed the single red rose just outside her front door.

* * *

><p>Sooo… who thinks that Erik was peeping on Little Jammes? And what did you think of Joseph Buquet's testimony? Is he to be trusted? Did the drugs make him think that someone was trying to kill him or was Erik actually there? Seems like he slipped up on whether or not his mother was alive so maybe he's not the most reliable witness…<p>

And what about that rose showing up on her doorstep? Who could it be from? Looks like she has a secret admirer...

I'd love to hear what you thought!


	6. Chapter 6

To those of you who I responded to late, I am so terribly sorry! I've had a rather overwhelming week and things definitely slipped because of it. But I will try my best to get back to you more promptly next time! I know I don't like to wait for snippets…

Now, onward!

* * *

><p>VI<p>

Christine didn't know what to think about the mysterious rose on her doorstep. At first she felt little as she picked up the luscious bloom, only a lingering sense of confusion. It was not the kind so often displayed in the market, but was full and fragrant, the deeply hued petals warm and enticing.

Not wanting to be late for court she quickly deposited it in a water filled cup and left it on her small dining table.

No one had ever given her flowers before and she could not afford such a luxury, so she did not have a vase to offer her new rose. It leaned against the glass heavily but at least it would stunt its withering—or at least, she hoped it would.

It was probably meant for a neighbor as a token for a first date that had gone very well, and the newly besotted beau had merely mixed up the apartments.

She tried not to sigh wistfully at the notion.

But as she entered the now well-known courthouse and the guard who had been so friendly with her before smiled at her almost knowingly, she started to feel a moment's trepidation.

What if it _was _meant for her?

Rarely did people know where she lived. It was in her personnel folder at work so someone could have looked it up there if they really wanted to know her whereabouts, but she trusted Ewan completely and it seemed highly unlikely that Carlotta would care enough about an employee to even exert the effort of looking.

Which meant that if someone had wanted to gift her with the lovely rose, they had followed her.

The guard's previous warning about how alone she appeared flittered through her mind. Would someone really want to harm her?

She was nothing special—was beyond most people's notice.

Christine couldn't help but hug herself a little more tightly as she waited on her usual step for the court's doors to open and the trial to commence.

No, it was much nicer to think that the rose was simply a mistake. She wasn't close enough to any of her neighbors to ask such personal questions as to their dating history to see if it should be restored to them—and in reality, a few of the occupants in the surrounding apartments frightened her.

And while perhaps it would be prudent to dispose of the flower as soon as she went home in case it was given with any nefarious purposes, she couldn't bring herself to consider actually doing it. Regardless of the intent of the giver, the rose itself hadn't done any harm… It even had been stripped of its thorns to specifically ensure it would _not _cause any unintended damage.

Christine tried to ignore the other jurors milling about and making small talk. Things about the inconvenience of driving to the in-law's for family dinner and a child's birthday party that cost far too much and would promptly be forgotten the following week seemed so wonderfully _normal—_and it only furthered how overwhelmed she felt.

How she envied it all.

Before long however the bailiff appeared and ushered them to their respective seats. So caught up was she still in her own thoughts that she clipped the corner of the balustrade that contained the jury box and she ungracefully sprawled across the empty chairs.

Richard had shuffled in first as first chair and after staring at her blankly for a moment he lurched forward and offered her his arm. "Christine, are you alright? That was quite a tumble!"

Christine was sure her cheeks were crimson and she was grateful that no one else had yet been seated lest she have experienced the added mortification of ending up in someone's lap.

A bailiff quickly approached also, the younger of the two she had seen. "You alright there, Miss? Do you need some help?"

She didn't think her face could grow any redder, but at his obvious concern and rather bewitching eyes her embarrassment found a way to increase. "I-I'm fine. Thank you. Just a bit clumsy, that's all."

She allowed Richard to help her back to her feet and she carefully made her way to her chair, hoping that no one else would inquire after her and that the judge would enter soon so everyone's attention would be diverted to something of actual importance.

But soon that familiar prickle settled on her and she couldn't help but glance up at Erik, wondering how he would react to her mishap.

Surely a murderer would derive some kind of pleasure at another's embarrassment or potential injury. Perhaps not all were sadistic, but if someone could so callously take the life of another, then it stood to reason that they lacked empathy in other areas.

But his eyes were the picture of concern even as he peeked at her from beneath long lashes, his hand still trying to cover as much of his face as he could.

She smiled at him ruefully and gave a tiny shrug, hoping he would understand that she was not hurt beyond her slightly bruised pride and a protesting shin.

Suddenly his free hand that had been gripped tightly into a fist upon the desktop opened and he placed it over his heart before he gave her a barely perceptible bow, another of his bashful smiles in place as he regarded her from the defense table.

And she couldn't deny that her heart melted just a little at his action.

Maybe it wasn't prudent to engage with a defendant during a trial, but it was not as though she had ever spoken with him. And Christine thought these little glimpses into his mind were important—that it provided as much evidence to his character as any witness' testimony.

"He sure looks at you a lot."

Christine's attention snapped away from Erik's as she glanced guiltily to Richard. "What?"

"The defendant. Don't think I haven't noticed him lookin' at you. Gives me the creeps. If he carries on anymore I'm going to inform the bailiff. You would too if you're smart."

Christine frowned and was saved from having to respond by the judge's entrance. He seemed to be in a slightly better mood today and he allowed the bailiff to call out the formalities he had denied for almost a week.

She hoped this meant that things had improved for him at home.

"Good morning, everyone. It appears that our fast pace the last few days means we're ahead of schedule! I am given to understand that the prosecution has expended its witnesses and evidence, is that correct, Mr. Sorelli?"

He stood with an almost apologetic smile on his face, and Christine hoped whatever he was about to say did not damper the judge's brightened disposition. "My apologies, your honor, but the State now believes that it is important to hear from the wife of the victim."

The judge's displeasure was palpable. "Why the sudden need to bother a new widow?"

Mr. Sorelli grimaced but Christine thought it a valid question. During the trial against the man who killed her papa it had been suggested that she testify about her father's character, but ultimately she had proved unfit.

Evidently it was important to be willing to speak when called as a witness.

"The jury deserves to hear more about the victim of this terrible crime, your honor. Who can provide a better picture of the man's state of mind than his own wife?"

The judge made a muttered sound that his microphone did not quite pick up, but ultimately relented.

"The State calls Ms. Jennifer Poligny to the stand."

Christine had been hoping to hear from Mr. Poligny's business partner as he seemed to be the one who would know most about the extortion they were supposed to be assessing.

But instead a smartly dressed woman took the stand, her pale hair pulled back in a becoming twist, her lips a bright crimson.

She was most certainly younger than the deceased—that was extremely obvious.

"Firstly, Ms. Poligny, I would like to extend the State's sincerest apologies for your loss."

The woman nodded her head graciously before rifling in her very expensive looking handbag and pulling out a lace trimmed handkerchief that she clutched tightly in her perfectly manicured hand.

"Thank you."

"I understand that this is a very difficult time for you and I hope giving your testimony will not prove too taxing."

The judge made an audible sigh and the prosecutor grimaced—the unspoken message to hurry things along readily apparent to all parties.

"You were the one to discover your husband's body, were you not?"

She nodded. "It was the worst experience of my life. Edgar was a wonderful husband and to see him… slumped over like that. He never would have taken his own life! Never!"

She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief but from Christine's vantage point in the jury box it was clear that there were no actual tears that would have required the action.

She had expected an older woman, with signs of actual pain at her husband's passing and although she felt bad at her seeming lack of compassion for the woman's plight, her emotions appeared so forced and not at all genuine that she could not help but be suspicious of her.

"What did you do next?"

She sniffed loudly. "I called an ambulance. I'm not a complete idiot and I could see he was dead but… no one ever tells you what to do when your husband is lying dead across his desk! Do you proceed with funeral arrangements? Call a lawyer? What if they had thought _I _had done something? To deal with such things when already overwhelmed with such grief was too much to even consider."

Christine doodled a rather rudimentary castle in the margin of her notepad, certain that this testimony was going to take all day if she felt the need to justify each of her thought processes.

"What was your husband's state of mind in the days leading to his death?"

Mr. Chagny rose quickly.

"Sit down, counselor. She's the man's wife and would presumably have known him quite well. I think it's safe for her to give an interpretation of his demeanor."

The defense attorney looked slightly put out but obeyed.

"He was… distraught. Almost frightened sometimes, especially when he received the last letter."

"Did he show you this letter?"

She plucked at a bit of lint on her navy suit. "He usually tried to keep such unpleasantness away from me. Didn't like to talk much about the business either." This she added in low, bitter tone and Christine stopped her drawing to make a note of it. Was she resentful that her husband didn't share more of his life with her?

"But I admit I was curious about what had him so upset, so a day or two before he died I went poking around his office and found it. It was different from the others… more ruthless. The others were more implicit in their threats while this one was very blatant."

"And what did this letter relate?"

Her hands twisted the handkerchief tightly. "If Edgar didn't give the man twenty thousand dollars by the end of the week, he was going to come to the house and hurt him."

The prosecutor glanced at the jury. "Let the record reflect that this letter has already been entered into evidence."

The judge waved his hand dismissively. "It is so reflected."

"Did your husband have that kind of money available? Is that why he was so nervous?"

Ms. Poligny shrugged. "I was not given access to the business accounts. He could have been broke for all I know; I _still _don't have access to it even after he died. Claude is the sole proprietor now."

The prosecutor's lips thinned; a peculiar reaction in Christine's mind. "Just answer my questions directly, Ms. Poligny."

She smiled wanly. "Sorry. I do not believe that he had access to that kind of money. At least, he wouldn't let me recover the living room furniture claiming that money was tight, so I presume things were actually dire."

She gave the jury a simpering smirk. "He didn't often say no to me."

Of course not. Not when she was easily twenty years his junior and was one of the most sophisticated women Christine had ever seen.

"After learning about this threat, did it ever occur to you to call the police?"

She shrugged. "Not really. When one's husband is wealthy and important there are a lot of disgruntled people—especially in the theatre. The arts do attract a certain _type _of person you know…" She glanced at the prosecutor meaningfully.

While Christine was disgruntled at her insinuation for the sake of her father, she could not pretend not to have some appreciation for a bit of truth. Creative types could often be flamboyant in personality, with delicate egos protected under layers of bravado and demands.

"Anyway, just last year he had to let one of the lead performers go. She threatened to cut his… well… _you know _off if she wasn't immediately reinstated. People just say things in the heat of the moment."

Mr. Sorelli nodded reassuringly. "I'm not accusing you of doing the wrong thing, Ms. Poligny. So you did not take the threat seriously, but did your husband? Did he speak to you about it?"

She grimaced. "It was the morning before he died… was killed. He came to me and said that he thought the madman meant it that time—that if he didn't continue to pay that he really would kill him. I guess he received a phone call while I was at yoga and it had shaken him up pretty badly."

"The State would like to enter the Poligny phone records into evidence, your honor. It clearly indicates that on the third of April a pay phone was used to contact their residence at 10:22 in the morning and lasted for less than a minute—plenty of time for a threatening message to be relayed."

"Objection, your honor! This might be evidence that a call was made but it does nothing to indicate the content of that call. It could have simply been a wrong number!"

The judge turned to the witness. "Ms. Poligny, when your husband mentioned this call, what did he say exactly was told to him?"

For the first time she actually looked genuinely disgruntled at the topic. "Edgar… said that a strange voice on the telephone asked if we had a gun." Her lips formed a tight line. "I didn't like it, not one bit, but after the house was robbed a few years back Edgar insisted on it—said it would protect me. As if I would ever use such a thing!"

Mr. Sorelli smiled at her encouragingly. "The telephone call?"

"Right. Well, apparently when Edgar told the man on the line that he did indeed have a gun and was trained in how to use it, the voice just laughed. Then it asked if he was _sure _where it was being kept."

"Where was the gun usually stored?"

Her brow wrinkled—or at least, Christine thought it attempted to but was impeded by any number of injectable substances. Then she immediately felt guilty for having such ungracious thoughts.

"He kept it in the top drawer of his dresser. Just in case, he said. Needless to say I stayed out of _that _particular drawer."

"And did he check after the call? Was the gun still there?"

She shook her head definitively. "No. That was when he began to panic. It was missing and when I tried to assure him that he likely misplaced it he… yelled at me. That I didn't understand; that everything was falling apart. My husband was _frightened."_

She was quiet for a moment before she sighed deeply. "I should have told him to call the police—to report the gun missing. That I didn't think his fears were ridiculous... not when… not when he's _dead_ because of…"

Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, and although that niggling guilt continued to grow, Christine found herself looking carefully for signs of actual tears.

There were none.

"No further questions, your honor."

"Mr. Chagny, do you have questions for this witness?"

He rose steadily and Christine distracted herself from her discourteous thoughts by focusing on the lavender hued tie and grey shirt that gave him a rather sickly appearance. She almost smiled wondering if his sense of fashion came from a misguided inner sense or if some woman in his life exacted her revenge by picking out such _unique_ combinations.

"Ms. Poligny, were you faithful to your husband?"

Her head rose sharply. "_Excuse _me?"

"Objection! Relevance?"

Mr. Chagny smoothed out his charcoal suit, seemingly unconcerned. "I think it highly relevant, your honor. Her faithfulness goes to their intimacy as a couple and her ability to accurately interpret her husband's reactions."

The judge gave a rather dubious look. "And you're certain this isn't a fishing expedition to cast suspicion on another suspect?"

The defense attorney's expression was the picture of innocence. "Hardly."

"Fine. But tread carefully, Mr. Chagny, she is a grieving widow."

He nodded in supplication before approaching the witness stand. "The same question, Ms. Poligny. Were you a faithful wife?"

Her face took on a pinched appearance. "Whatever arrangements I had with my husband are strictly _our _business, not this sham of a trial."

"_Was_," Mr. Chagny interjected forcefully. "Perhaps it _was _your business but now a man is dead and it is our responsibility to explore all avenues. But perhaps I shall phrase it another way. What is your relationship with an Emil Gutiérrez?"

She glared. "He was our landscape designer last year—designed a beautiful pergola and rock garden by the south lawn. And before you ask, it was strictly a professional relationship."

Mr. Chagny smiled. "The defense would like to submit this sworn statement by Mr. Gutiérrez that they engaged in no less than twelve sexual liaisons over the course of their _professional _relationship."

Her glare became even more ferocious. "Then he's lying."

"Or perhaps _you _are lying. Tell me, after the dust had settled were you glad that your husband could no longer frown upon your extramarital affairs?"

"No!"

"Your honor, he's clearly badgering the witness!"

The judge made to interrupt but Mr. Chagny pressed on.

"Are you glad he's dead?"

"He was my husband!"

"And yet in Mr. Gutiérrez's statement he vividly remembers how you complained about your husband—how you stated you would leave him if a pre-nup wouldn't have denied you alimony after the divorce!"

"Alright, _yes._ Are you happy? We had our problems, like _all _couples do. And maybe I retaliated by having an affair now and again. But that doesn't mean I wanted him dead, and that certainly does not imply that I was somehow involved in it!"

All was quiet in the court for a long moment and Christine stared blankly down at her notepad, unsure of what to write. Could there really have been some other plot at work? Perhaps a jealous lover decided to dispatch with an older husband, all under the guise of a blackmailer. They'd get money _and _the wife in one swift action.

Was Erik's presence at the theatre merely a coincidence?

When Mr. Chagny spoke again his voice was low and carefully controlled. "Do you know the accused, Ms. Poligny? Was he one of your dalliances?"

Her mouth dropped open. "_That_? You think I'd sleep with _that?_"

Christine glanced quickly at Erik only to find him tracing light patterns on the desktop with a pale fingertip, his shoulders slightly hunched.

Anger mixed with pity welled within her. He should not be subjected to hearing such things, no matter his supposed crime. He was still a human being, and to be referred to as less than a person…

She wanted to give him a hug.

But such was impossible so she forced herself to return her attention to the witness.

"It is a fair question, Ms. Poligny. I'm asking if you have any type of personal relationship with the accused."

Her nose crinkled in disgust. "None. I've never seen that man before."

"Not around the theatre? Not in your home? He might have been wearing a mask." He went to his desk and pulled out a picture, holding it so both the witness and the jury could see it. It was nearly impossible to tell _who _might be beneath it for it covered every inch of flesh. But the eyes staring out from beneath were not colorless—were not the hauntingly sad eyes of the defendant, but were a normal hazel.

"I should certainly think I'd remember something like that! And my answer is the same, I've never seen that around _any _of the places I frequent."

Mr. Chagny smiled almost triumphantly. "I have no further questions, your honor."

The judge sighed. "Excellent. Then the court is in recess."

And as Christine shuffled by the table where Erik still sat, she found that he looked nearly as despondent and lifeless as the very first day of the trial.

And she had to clench her hand tightly to keep from reaching out and laying a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

For even if no one else remembered, she knew.

He was still a man and deserved far better than this.

* * *

><p>Sooo… does hearing from the widow change your mind? Does Erik seem more or less guilty to you now? Do you think that something else is going on?<p>

And do you think Christine should be doodling during the trial? I don't know about you, but while I'm a terrible 'artist', my notebooks all through school were covered in scribbles.

Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts! You help keep me writing even when my schedule threatens to drown me.


	7. Chapter 7

Many thanks for your continued encouragement! Just a couple questions that have come up that are probably worth addressing en masse.

First of all, as of this moment, I do plan on us getting a more intimate look from Erik's perspective, but don't expect it to be for a while yet. Don't want to spoil any surprises! And just a… reminder, while this is my _plan _I'm not the greatest… well… planner when it comes to stories. But I should eventually get to that point!

Secondly, about updates. This is actually a question I've been meaning to pose to all of you. Those who have read my other stories while I was posting them, I've always been a twice a week updater on specific dates/times. So far I've been updating this story willy-nilly… is that working for you, or would you prefer a set day? I can only promise weekly updates since I'm writing two stories at once and the other requires attention too, but if you want to weigh in on preferences (even which day is best for you in terms of reading and… well… reviewing *stares pointedly*) I'd love to hear it!

Okay, enough from me. Onward!

* * *

><p>VII<p>

Christine was nervous about the upcoming day. The judge had opened the proceedings by making the prosecutor swear that he would rest his case and allow the defense to have a turn, and to everyone's relief he was indeed ready to concede the floor to Mr. Chagny.

But that step took them closer to deliberations, and Christine did not think she was at all ready for that.

Despite what Mr. Sorelli had reminded them again and again, her opinions were beginning to solidify—the foremost that something deeper was going on. The witnesses were all nervous, all far too ready to blame Erik with little knowledge of his existence beyond rumors and ghost stories told to titillate the theatre girls.

And while she told herself that her focus should be solely on the trial and its intricacies, she could not help but feel apprehensive about making her debut performance to the dinner patrons.

When not sleeping and trying to recuperate from her lack of sleep and free time over the past week, she practiced her singing. One of her neighbors, a particularly intimidating fellow whom she had not opened the door to, had heard her in the hallway and had banged on her door to, "Stop that classical racket, this ain't junior high!"

Needless to say she was not as practiced as she would have preferred.

The trial had been going for almost two weeks now and she wondered how accurate the three week estimate would really be. Were there truly so few witnesses to help Erik's side of the case that everything could be completed by Friday?

While the prospect of the trial ending and her regular life commencing should have filled her with a sense of relief, now she only felt slightly despondent—no more shy smiles, no more studying Mr. Chagny's strange attire…

She would go back to casual friendships at her job and quiet solitude the rest of the time.

And somehow that did not seem so appealing any longer.

"The defense would like to call Dr. Edward Clark to the stand."

Mr. Sorelli rose. "Your honor, this witness was only added to the list three days ago—hardly enough time for us to properly prepare."

The judge's eyes narrowed at Mr. Chagny. "Any particular reason for the delay?"

The defense smiled almost apologetically. "Your honor, his testimony has only recently become pertinent. I can assure you, this was not a tactic to keep the State from prosecuting my client to the _fullest _extent of the law."

The judge rolled his eyes. "I'm sure. But I will take your word for it, Mr. Chagny, so objection overruled, counselor. The witness may approach."

The doctor was a tall man, and Christine could easily picture him in a white coat that would have nicely coordinated with his thickly rimmed glasses. He was approaching middle age and was a relatively good looking man. His face was beginning to show signs of wear, possibly from his profession, but there were crinkles at the corners of his eyes that showed he was not unfamiliar with smiling and she was glad of it.

He twisted his wedding ring nervously around his finger as he took the stand and gave his word that his testimony would be truthful.

"Dr. Clark, thank you for taking the time to be here this morning, I know you're a very busy man." It felt a little odd to have Mr. Chagny allowed to speak first, but she was certain she would grow used to it quickly.

"My job has many facets, and I suppose this is one them. Can't say that it's my favorite aspect of it though." He glanced apologetically at the judge, who smiled back grimly.

"And for the sake of the jury, what precisely is your profession?"

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'm a doctor at the Medford Psychiatric Hospital. The defendant… Erik… was recently brought to my facility and I have met with him several times."

"Were you involved in his initial assessment for eligibility for trial?"

He shook his head. "No, that was performed by the prison psychiatrist."

"Dr. Clark, are you aware of what my client is being charged with?"

The doctor's lips thinned. "Murder and blackmail."

Mr. Chagny nodded his confirmation. "In what condition was my client in when he was brought to your facility?"

Dr. Clark sighed. "He had suffered multiple contusions, especially along the face and torso. The guards who had overseen his transfer said that he was _clumsy,_ but it was obvious that such wounds were from a fist. Apparently some people took exception to his appearance in prison."

"Objection, your honor, the doctor can't possibly know the motivation of any alleged attackers."

"Sustained. Keep your testimony to your observations, doctor."

He cleared his throat again. "Fine. The wounds were suspicious and in my _professional _opinion, they were caused by a fist, not an accidental tumble down some stairs."

"Had you seen the initial report by the prison psychiatrist?"

He nodded again. "Yes, it was a part of his intake form. He was described as being nearly catatonic. He would cooperate in the basic sense, mostly to keep from being touched unnecessarily, but he wouldn't speak and he barely ate."

"And yet your colleague believed him fit to stand trial."

Dr. Clark grunted. "He is hardly my colleague, but yes, evidently he was deemed aware enough of his surroundings to be held accountable for his supposed actions."

Mr. Chagny smirked. "You sound doubtful that he committed these offenses. Why is that?"

"Erik is… showing remarkable changes in the short time he has been meeting with me. He has begun talking, and while he is not the most… forthcoming of patients, his intelligence is notable. Honestly, the messy nature of the case is what concerns me. It seems almost… beneath him."

"Beneath him… what specific examples do you have for the court of Erik's intelligence?"

Mr. Sorelli interrupted, "Your honor, whether or not the accused is _smart _isn't the question."

The judge waved away his concern with a dismissive gesture. "I'm going to trust there is some relevance to all this and I would like to hear what the doctor has to say. Continue Mr. Chagny."

Christine didn't miss the rather triumphant grin that Mr. Chagny sent to the prosecution.

"Examples, doctor?"

"I cannot give you specifics exactly as the confidentiality of my patients is paramount. However…"

He glanced in Erik's direction. He didn't look up from the desk and Christine was sorry to see that the weekend away from insulting witnesses and hurtful comments had done little to lift his spirits as he continued to stare at anything but the people surrounding him.

"I have a patient… let's call him Marcus. He stopped eating a few days ago and no matter the intervention of the staff we couldn't get him to communicate what had suddenly changed. I was going to have to have him sent to the infirmary and insert a feeding tube but then in my next session with Erik, he tells me that a spider had laid an egg sack in Marcus's room and the babies went crawling all over… burrowing in his bedding, creeping through cracks in the walls, that sort of thing. I changed Marcus's room location and he's eating more than ever."

"Does Erik room with this patient?"

Dr. Clark shook his head. "He's nowhere near him. They share one meal time, but the nurses say they've never seen an interaction and there is also a communal recreational class that most patients are compelled to attend."

"And that is?"

"An art class. Erik is quite proficient; some of his drawings are the best I've ever seen."

Mr. Chagny paused for a moment, seemingly to collect his thoughts. "So how do you account for this knowledge?"

The doctor hesitated. "Despite the report of Dr. Houser, I believe that Erik is indeed capable of connecting with people—with understanding their motives. He has keen observational skills and he knows how to use them to their best advantage. That is what I mean that this crime appears beneath him. I believe that if Erik wanted to commit a murder that we wouldn't be here today trying to determine his guilt."

"So he is observant, but do you believe that this is also evidence that he is able to show care to other individuals?"

The doctor nodded. "He didn't have to tell me what was wrong with Marcus. I never would have asked as I don't commonly discuss other patients during a session. Yet he voluntarily brought up another man's suffering and suggested how it might be alleviated. In my experience, that is not something a man incapable of empathy would do."

"Has he spoken to you about this case?"

Dr. Clark's brow furrowed slightly. "I cannot breach confidentiality unless I believe someone to be in imminent danger—which is not the case. What I can say is that when I have brought up the subject, Erik has laughed at it."

An eyebrow rose. "Laughed? An odd reaction."

The man shrugged. "It wasn't a malicious laugh, as one might expect from someone who has committed a malevolent crime and feels the need to gloat. He found the entire thing more… absurd that he was actually being accused of it."

"In your opinion, doctor, is this man a danger to society?"

He was quiet a long moment but answered before he could be prompted again. "We are all capable of wrongdoing. Erik has suffered a great deal, one look at his initial medical assessment will tell you of great abuses he must have endured. But I do not believe that he is a man without conscience or that he is unaware of his actions. If he truly did commit these crimes then he should be held accountable. However, it is my firm conviction that he did not in fact kill Mr. Poligny."

Mr. Sorelli stood to object to something but Mr. Chagny interrupted. "No further questions, your honor."

The judge nodded. "Very well, you look about ready to say something, counselor, care to share with the class?"

The prosecutor smiled grimly. "Indeed, your honor."

He approached the witness stand with slow, methodical steps, a direct contrast to the impatient expression on his face. "Dr. Clark, are you a mind reader?"

Mr. Chagny's mouth opened but the judge waved him off. "Don't bother. Mr. Sorelli, keep things civil in my courtroom."

"My apologies, I will rephrase. Dr. Clark, would you seriously like us to believe that because of a singular case wherein the accused was able to notice baby spiders in a patient's room, he is somehow too intelligent to have committed this crime?"

The doctor looked mildly impatient himself. "I do not expect you to believe anything. I merely have spoken on what I have observed during Erik's time in the hospital. I was under the impression it was left to the jury to decide on its validity."

His tone was sharp and pointed, and Christine decided that if ever she required mental health services, she would most certainly ask for this particular doctor.

Then she promptly hoped she would never, ever have to seek him out.

"And do you have any evidence that Erik did _not _in fact commit these crimes? Can you provide an alibi? Another suspect?"

The doctor's eyes narrowed. "No."

"Then really all you can offer if your opinion. I wasn't aware we had begun utilizing personal belief over evidence when it comes to convictions. I'll have to let the DA know."

"Objection. Does Mr. Sorelli have a question?"

"Nothing further, your honor. I think the jury can see through all this… malarkey without more from me."

"Careful, counselor. You've had your turn with witnesses and now it's Mr. Chagny's. He's allowed to conduct his defense in whatever manner he sees fit _without _your additional commentary. Is that understood?"

"Certainly, your honor."

The judge didn't seem at all convinced, but he allowed the doctor to vacate the witness stand.

Christine was gratified to note that Erik gave him the briefest nod as he passed—the first true sign of his awareness since the proceedings had begun that morning.

She was reminded of her school days when a particularly long lecture did little to hold her attention and she would risk the teacher's displeasure in order to pass a note to her neighbor. Nothing scandalous, just a simple 'hello' scrawled across the page.

Christine wanted to give Erik such a greeting, just to see if he'd give her one of those sweet smiles again, but this time the consequences would be far greater than a stern look and a possible talking to.

Court recessed early that day so Christine had a little time to return home and change before work, and she was grateful for the reprieve—especially when she found her first check for sitting on the jury waiting in her mailbox.

With new exuberance over her unexpected income she listened for any signs that her neighbors were at home before practicing a few of her preferred pieces. If given a choice she would typically avoid love songs as they made her heart ache for things that as of yet could never be, but today she faced them bravely and found that she had missed her music over the past weeks without it.

The restaurant was quiet that night, with no diners that she recognized. Her coworker was busy with a table of eight businessmen, their suit jackets abandoned and their sleeves rolled up as they dined and made ample use of the bar service. Shelly flirted with them shamelessly, her desire to abandon waitressing to be some kind and rich man's wife a secret to no one.

But Christine didn't blame her, especially not since the gentlemen were all very nice looking and from the fine looking fabric of their suits they were gainfully employed.

Christine's own section had only an elderly couple, and while they were very sweet and polite to her, their meager selections meant she would not receive much of a tip, regardless of the percentage. Yet with the check from the court still tucked safely in her wallet she found that she didn't mind the emptiness of her corner, and she even convinced the chef to give them a dessert on the house as a celebration of their anniversary.

"Christine, it's your turn!"

Shelly had just finished her set and scooted Christine out of the kitchen. Another patron had settled into the far booth, but she would have to wait to take his order until after she had performed. If he grew too impatient then he would just have to flag down another waitress as Carlotta did not tolerate tardiness during the routines, regardless of a customer's needs.

Christine didn't quite agree, but she was not about to argue.

During lunch they used recordings to accompany the singers, and Christine had not sung with a live instrument since her father had died. While she was nervous about coordinating with another person again—especially one that did not know every nuisance of her voice like her papa had, she still was grateful that it was not a violin as she didn't think she could handle such strong similarities at the moment.

"Got a song picked out?"

Christine nodded and gave the page number in the approved song booklet that Carlotta updated every so often.

Travis was a good man, much younger than she expected initially. While they had never performed together, he would come in early to have a bite to eat and if one of her tables stayed particularly late she would be able to hear him as she waited to get off the clock.

He was in his late twenties and was very talented. She had asked him once why he chose to play at a restaurant instead of venturing into the more notable musical positions and he had laughed at her.

"I could ask you the same thing!"

She had blushed but did not feel the need to go into any of her more personal reasons for her choices. "I like my tips. Don't get many of those working for a theatre."

He grinned. "Yeah, I'm sure that's the reason. But I'll tell you, Christine, it's a mean 'ole world out there for performers like us and sometimes it's nice to get to play without a critic breathing down your neck."

Christine smiled. "Now there's just Carlotta."

His grin grew. "Exactly. And she's tough enough for me."

Today his smile was bright and genuine as he flipped to her chosen song. "Nice to see you finally join us here for dinner. I've heard people remark about how pretty your voice is—I'm looking forward to hearing it myself."

Her cheeks reddened and she made no reply, knowing it would only make her more anxious.

So instead she took a deep breath and forced herself to relax.

This was music.

This was what she shared with her papa and had once loved with almost her entire being.

None of the diners took particular notice, at least, not that she could tell. She closed her eyes for the most part and tried to _feel _the music as her father had instructed. He told her that the way to move an audience was to choose emotion of technical perfection—that few would know if you transposed the occasional note, but if it lacked authenticity, none would believe the piece.

Her set was short. Carlotta may have chosen to indulge the patrons who specifically requested she be allowed to perform, but that did not mean she was given many opportunities. She only sang two songs, and of her own volition she had selected some of the shortest options available.

Maybe in a week's time she would feel more capable.

But now as she finished her last note and a few of the sparse diners gave muted applause, she found herself regretting her selections.

It felt _good _to sing again.

Something in her seemed emboldened, as if sitting on Erik's trial and having the constant reminder that life could so easily be threatened based on the decision of a simple jury, there was no excuse for her to continue merely existing.

Her papa never would have wished for that.

Travis was going on his break and before she could go to the customer in the back and finally take his drink order, he pulled her aside.

"You were wonderful!"

She smiled shyly. "Thank you. It feels different having someone accompany me."

He chuckled. "I'm sure it does, and I hope you're able to stay on dinner service when your jury duty's up. I think you're a real asset to this place and it would great for other people to get the pleasure of hearing you."

She thanked him quietly before hurrying to her table, the performance still making her a bit jittery. Nerves had given way to a feeling of freedom and she didn't know what to do with the excess energy she now possessed.

The man who had entered just before her performance began had disappeared, presumably tired of waiting for service. If another of the staff noticed they would often explain that their waitress would be with them after the show, but Shelly was still preoccupied with her group of men and Christine doubted she would have noted a lone man in a darkened corner of the room.

She hoped he wasn't too upset about it.

The bank was long since closed by the time her shift ended, and she chastised herself for not having left earlier beforehand so she could have visited the ATM when it was light out. But still, she relished the thought of a lunch beyond the meager peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she had taken to bringing to the courthouse so before taking the bus back to her rather shady neighborhood she cashed her check, all the while looking about her to ensure that none took special notice that she now had cash in her purse.

Thankfully she saw no one.

The bus was a later one than she was used to, mostly empty except for some haggard looking people in work uniforms—some which looked like convenience stores and others more janitorial.

This one also made much more frequent stops than her usual, and she leaned her head tiredly against the window as they made slow progress across town.

Eventually they reached her stop and she held tightly to her purse as she hurried toward her apartment. The streetlamps had long since lost their bulbs making for long and ominous looking stretches of darkness, and tonight in particular she felt jumpy and uneasy. She felt as though someone followed her, her skin prickling at the knowledge that eyes were watching her, and she was never so grateful for seeing the slightly dilapidated building that made up her home as she quickly went up the steps and opened the outer door with her key.

But all sense of relief completely vanished when she reached down to pick up a single sheet of folded white paper, her heart turning cold at the words scrawled across the page.

_You have a beautiful voice, Christine. _

* * *

><p>Sooo… looks like Christine has an admirer! And she's just not quite sure about it. Who do you think it was? Hmmm…<p>

And what did you think of a look into Erik's stay at the psychiatric hospital? Did you expect him to be cooperative?

Also, don't forget to give your opinion on posting days! Your preferences matter to me!


	8. Chapter 8

We've got some theories going about who Christine's admirer could be! Most lean toward Erik while others question the security guard's motives... hmmm... We'll have to wait and see!

Now, onward!

* * *

><p>VIII<p>

Christine had taken the note and propped it up against the glass that still held the rose which was just now beginning to droop.

She sat and stared at it for a long while, her emotions not allowing her to consider sleeping. Not yet. Not when she hadn't decided if she should inform the police.

Her first thought had been that someone had followed her home from the restaurant, the eerie feeling of being watched still fresh in her mind. But the note had been waiting for her and someone would need a key to enter the building, so she had almost convinced herself that it was merely one of her neighbors who had overheard and was showing their quiet support, even when others banged on her door and demanded she be silent.

That must have been it. The rose had been a mistaken gift for another tenant while the note was not as nefarious as she had first supposed.

Yet even when she forced herself to change into her nightgown and climb under the covers, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was mistaken—that something deeper was happening and she was foolish not to immediately inform the authorities.

Would anyone notice if she suddenly disappeared one day?

The court would, surely, and that was a comforting thought in its own strange way. Maybe the security guard would be sent to her apartment to demand she show up for the trial, only to see that she had been abducted by some madman.

But in that case they would merely call in one of the jury alternates and maybe, if they were not too busy, they would inform the police that Juror Number 2 had been abducted.

Christine was tired of living alone—so tired of the uncertainty.

When the security guard gave her a thin smile and nod in passing that morning, she almost shuffled past without pressing any enquiries. On her way to the courthouse she had done her best to push away her own troubles so she could focus solely on the trial, but his warning from weeks ago returned to the forefront of her mind and she couldn't ignore it.

"Sir?"

He cast a slightly nervous glance at the guard beside him before gesturing her to follow him to the very edge of the desk. "Is there a problem, miss?"

"Do you know something?"

Maybe that was a ridiculous way to begin a conversation, but the way his expression morphed from anxiousness to pure innocence, and the way his shrug was almost forced in its nonchalance, she realized she had been right to ask so directly.

"Sorry, miss, but I don't know what you're talking about." He glanced at the clock behind him. "Hadn't you better be getting to court?"

She frowned. "You warned me. Weeks ago you told me to be careful, that some might want to take advantage of me. Why would you do that but not give me particulars so I can better protect myself?"

A portly man brushed past her and she had to clutch her purse to keep it from tumbling off her shoulder.

"I didn't mean anything by it, you obviously read too much into it. You just seem like a sweet girl and it's always best to be careful, especially if you live alone."

The knot of fear in her stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. "How do you know I live by myself?"

His eyes widened and suddenly his face hardened and he waved her onward. "Move along, miss, you're holding up the line. Just go up to the courtroom and listen like you're supposed to."

She stepped backward from the desk at his abrupt dismissal, and straight into someone. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" And too late she recognized the oddly coordinated shirt and tie, as well as the just too-long hair.

He had grabbed her waist briefly to keep her from falling, but released her just as quickly. "Alright there?"

She blushed and looked to the floor. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Chagny, I didn't mean to."

He chuckled lowly. "No harm done. And now I have to offer an apology of my own. While I'd love to introduce myself properly, we're not allowed to speak outside of court."

She nodded vigorously. While quite a few of the rules did not make sense to her regarding jury ethics, she understood the importance of having no outside contact with the attorneys.

"I'll see you in court, Miss Daaé." And with a wide grin in her direction that she only managed to catch the end of when she gathered her courage to glance up at him, he hurried up the stairs and likely to his client.

This time her stomach twisted in a different way, unable to ignore his charming smile and gentlemanly behavior. She just hoped they wouldn't get into trouble because of her clumsiness.

Before she went up to the courtroom Christine took note of the guard's nametag and scribbled down _Officer Davies _onto her notepad. While he wasn't relevant to the case, there was something definitely off about him and if things escalated—and she prayed they did not—she would need a name to offer the authorities.

Christine's cheeks reddened again as she walked past the defense table and took her seat in the jury box, Mr. Chagny chuckling once again at her embarrassment. What she did not expect was the fierce scowl on Erik's face as he glanced at his attorney, for the first time his lips moving and evidently speaking to his lawyer.

She didn't know why but it felt rather shocking that he would speak—he was so stoic and apathetic for so long that for him to break his silence now was surprising. Mr. Chagny also looked taken aback, and she dearly wished she could hear what they were whispering about.

Eventually however, Erik looked mollified, though he still sent disgruntled looks at his attorney every so often.

"Hmph, at least he's glaring at his lawyer today and not at you."

Richard was lounging in his seat, his elbow almost encroaching on her own armrest, but it was his words that rankled her more than his casual demeanor. They _were _still in a court of law after all. While weeks of sitting and listening to testimony had made her relax somewhat from sheer necessity alone—for her back could not handle much more of her stiff and stringent posture—she still made every effort to dress appropriately and not forget the solemnity of their charge.

Others obviously took a different approach.

"He does not _glare _at me. If a group of twelve strangers were deciding my fate, I'd want to assess them too!"

Richard shrugged. "To each their own, but it's mighty naïve of you to think he's looking at the rest of us as much as he stares at you." He frowned thoughtfully. "Course, you are the prettiest on the panel and someone as wretched as him just might not be used to seeing a sweet face about."

Christine opened her mouth to offer her outraged reply, but the judge entered and she was not about to take a scolding merely because of Richard.

"Mr. Chagny, would you care to start us off?"

He rose and buttoned his suit jacket, giving Erik an uncertain glance before he schooled his features and addressed the judge. "Yes, your honor. The defense would like to call Claude Debienne to the stand."

The prosecution had submitted photos of the crime scene into evidence, but Christine wished they had been given a picture of Mr. Poligny alive and well so she could compare the two business partners. Debienne was younger than she expected, but probably not far behind the victim's sixty-one years of age. But he carried it well; his grey hair and dark suit a strong contrast that spoke of dignity and wealth.

But what struck her most was the way his eyes flickered about the courtroom. For all the measures he had taken to ensure his appearance was one of quiet composure, his expression belied the attire and his anxiety was more than obvious.

He was sworn in, his right hand trembling, before Mr. Chagny approached him.

"Mr. Debienne, how long were you partners with the victim?"

He swallowed. "Twenty-eight years. I couldn't have asked for a better friend and partner than Poligny, and his death has been most upsetting."

Mr. Chagny smiled grimly. "I'm sure. How would you categorize the relationship between your partner and his wife?"

"Your honor, we are all very aware of the defense's position on the Poligny marriage. Surely we don't need to hear it from this witness."

Mr. Chagny shook his head. "I disagree. By his own admission he is a close personal friend of many years, his relationship with the deceased lasting far beyond the marriage. His insight is valuable."

The judge groaned quietly and Christine couldn't help but smile. She had always thought that being a judge was a prestigious position, but with these two particular attorneys it seemed more akin to wrangling schoolyard arguments.

"Make your position quickly, Mr. Chagny."

He made his usual platitudes before returning his attention to the witness. "Their marriage, Mr. Debienne?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "They had their problems, the same as any couple."

Mr. Chagny smirked. "I'm not sure it's quite the same. But please give us some examples of what have you've witnessed."

The witness cleared his throat. "They… fought. But all couples fight, so that really isn't unusual at all. Me and my ex would have the biggest rows before the divorce. And after it, too, if I'm being honest."

"Were these fights ever physical?"

Mr. Debienne's brow furrowed. "Did Poligny ever hit Jennifer? No, never. At least, not that I ever saw, and she wasn't the type that would stay quiet about something like that—would have made sure the entire neighborhood knew if he'd raised a hand to her."

Mr. Chagny went to his desk and picked up a file. "Have you ever been to a hotel on… Stratford Street?"

There was no mistaking how some of the color drained from his face even as he quickly tried to cover his unease with a confused expression. "I have a home here in the city. Why would I need to make use of a hotel?"

Mr. Chagny eyed him sardonically. "I'm sure I cannot testify to your state of mind or how you choose to spend your funds. But I _do _have an affidavit here from the hotel manager, and he claims that he's seen both you and Mrs. Poligny enter his facility on multiple occasions. Now why would you do that?"

Mr. Debienne's mouth dropped open. "We were assured that hotel was discreet!"

The defense attorney chuckled. "That might be true, but I'm sure discretion is waved when a man is accused of murder. Now, were you having an affair with Mrs. Poligny?"

"It wasn't like that!"

An eyebrow rose in question. "Wasn't it? The record already reflects that Mrs. Poligny has engaged in at least one affair, so you're asking me to believe that she did not engage in sexual relations with you as well? What better revenge than to sleep with her husband's business partner!"

Mr. Sorelli rose. "Your honor, Mrs. Poligny's sexual history is not on trial here, and it is hardly relevant to this case!"

The judge hesitated. "Mr. Chagny, I asked you to move things along quickly. Is there a greater point to this?"

He nodded. "I can assure you there is, your honor. I was just getting there."

The judge hummed noncommittally. "Then _get _there, counselor. Objection overruled."

"If your meetings were not of a sexual nature, Mr. Debienne, what were they about?"

He sent a pleading glance at the judge. "Do I really have to answer?"

The judge's eyes narrowed. "Unless you are afraid of incriminating yourself of a crime, then yes, you are required to answer truthfully."

His lips thinned and his attention returned to the defense. "She was unhappy. We just… talked."

Mr. Chagny looked at him incredulously. "_About?_"

"Things! I don't know! She asked me what would be involved in a divorce since I was a part of drawing up the pre-nup. I tried to get her to seek some more… professional assistance, maybe some counseling would help them work things out, but she was so angry with him. She felt he excluded her from the business and that's a big part of our lives."

"And were you successful?"

Mr. Debienne appeared distinctly uncomfortable. "Not exactly. She stopped bringing up a divorce, but she… wanted to know a lot of what went on at the theatre. She took special interest in the rumor about a ghost living in the rafters." He waved his hand dismissively. "It was all very ridiculous."

"In her testimony she claimed that her husband took these notes very seriously. You did not?"

Mr. Debienne was quiet for a moment as he stared down at his hands before answering. "I can't say that I did. We caught a few of the understudies in the office once, placing notes and trying to play it off like the _ghost _had done it. Of course all they really wanted was a better part, and were taking advantage of a rumor to get it. So then when the last threat came…" He shrugged. "Why would I think it was any different? How was I to know which notes were from an _actual _blackmailer and which were simply hoaxes by the theatre company?"

"And that is why you did not contact the police, even after your friend expressed his concerns to you?"

He sighed heavily. "That's right. I tried to calm him down, remind him of all the pranks that had been pulled on us over the years. I… dismissed him. And I see now that it was one of the biggest mistakes of my life."

"Did you ever see my client depositing one of these letters?"

The witness cast an incredibly short glance at Erik before retuning his focus to Mr. Chagny. "I'd remember a face like that. And no, I never did."

Mr. Chagny pulled out the same photo he had shown to Mrs. Poligny, and Christine noted that the eyes still seemed wrong to be Erik's. "And what about someone in this mask?"

He stared at it for a long moment. "I… it was late one night and I was finishing up paperwork in the office. I was startled… I mean, it looks like death! But at the time… I was tired and many of our productions utilize masks. I didn't think much of it. Like I said, a lot of our employees are known for their practical jokes."

This time Mr. Chagny's smile was genuine. "If I told you that my client owned a mask, possibly even this very one," he held up the picture again, "would you therefore identify him as the man you saw?"

Mr. Debienne looked unsure. "I… suppose?"

Mr. Chagny held up another photo, this time with a young man holding up the mask beside his face, his hazel eyes easily recognizable from the previous picture. "And what if I told you that this was my paralegal wearing Erik's mask?"

"Your honor, this proves nothing!"

"Witnesses are claiming that my client is the one they've seen, when in reality it could be any man wearing a mask! I think that highly relevant to this case!"

The judge gave one harsh _bang _with the gavel and the room fell quiet. "Now, if you're all done shouting at me, while I might not approve of Mr. Chagny's slightly underhanded tactics, he makes a good point. Therefore I am allowing the photographs into evidence. Did you have more questions, counselor?"

"Just one, your honor."

"Very well, ask it."

Mr. Chagny moved closer to the witness stand and Mr. Debienne unconsciously leaned back in his chair. "Do you know who killed your partner?"

His mouth opened before he swallowed, his eyes once more darting about the courtroom. "No. No I don't."

"So you do not think it was this man, fueled by anger at having his alleged blackmail ignored?"

Mr. Debienne scowled. "I don't know _what _to think anymore. But if you're asking if even now I think that all the notes were genuine the answer is no. Do I think that someone maliciously broke into Poligny's home and shot him in the head, the answer is no."

"Well something did happen, Mr. Debienne, so what _do _you think took place?"

He was quiet for a long moment and the defense attorney had to prompt him twice more before he gave an answer. "I think that something awful has taken place and that I just wish we could all move past it. I lost a friend that day, and no court ruling is going to change that."

Mr. Chagny's voice lowered and he leaned forward, his expression one of compassion. "Do you believe that my client was the one who killed your partner?"

His face was almost agonized as he cast another quick glance at Erik, and Christine scribbled furiously in her notepad. His entire posture easily related that each word was carefully chosen for something was being carefully concealed.

"If he was in fact the one to send the notes, some of the genuine notes that is, all he wanted was the theatre to improve. On those occasions when we did as was suggested, things _did _go more smoothly. We sold more tickets, the reviews were better… but Poligny was afraid of catering too much to a blackmailer so sometimes we ignored it. The accidents that followed were just that: _accidents._ I have never seen that man, and I'm… uncomfortable saying that I believe he escalated that quickly as to murder my…"

His voice trailed off and Mr. Chagny nodded. "No further questions, your honor."

"Mr. Sorelli? Do you have any questions for this witness?"

He rose and took Mr. Chagny's place before the witness stand. "You have no evidence that it wasn't this man, do you?"

Mr. Debienne sighed. "No, I don't. Like I said, I don't know who actually killed Poligny or their true motive. It could be him, but I cannot say for certain and I won't pretend to."

"How closely have you followed the police investigation?"

His lips thinned. "This has been extremely difficult. Every day I go to work and think about my partner. Every decision that I once would have consulted him on I now have to make alone."

Mr. Sorelli's head tilted. "That doesn't answer my question."

"It was too difficult to listen to the details! To hear about suspects and evidence when I was just trying to keep the theatre going and comfort Jennifer at the same time."

The prosecutor raised his hands in a placating manner. "Completely understandable. But because of this, isn't it safe to say that your view of what happened to your friend is uninformed? That your opinion on this case is from a lack of knowledge of the facts and evidence, and not because you truly believe this man to be innocent, as Mr. Chagny would have us believe?"

Mr. Debienne frowned. "I suppose so."

The defense looked ready to object but Mr. Sorelli held up his hand. "I have no further questions, your honor."

"Alright, then we'll break for lunch and reconvene in an hour; court is in recess until then."

Christine did not miss the glance Erik gave to Mr. Debienne as he passed, nor the way the witness kept his eyes carefully lowered.

And once again Christine was certain they were not receiving the full story.

"That man could pierce someone's soul with eyes like that. Betcha he can even manipulate people into doing whatever he wants, like some mad hypnotist."

Christine gave Richard an exasperated look. "You shouldn't make assumptions about people, especially not when on a trial!"

Richard merely shrugged at her attempt at scolding. "You just wait 'til you're as old as I am. Then you'll start to trust your instincts about people."

He shuffled past her and although she knew his words were based on nothing more than a man's prejudice, still her thoughts lingered over the strange note she had found the night before.

"Miss? We're going to have to lock up the courtroom. Shouldn't you go find some lunch?"

So lost had she been in her own thoughts she had missed the room emptying of occupants except for the bailiff still on duty. "Oh, I'm so sorry!"

She grabbed her purse and stood, but before she vacated the room completely she turned to the young man following behind. "Tell me… if you can… does the defendant have any known associates?"

His brow furrowed.

* * *

><p>"What do you mean?"<p>

She huffed, annoyed with herself at trying to express thoughts that were only half formed in her own mind. "I mean… does he have people working with him? That have not been arrested? Could he have contacted someone on the outside and they'd… do what he asked of them?"

The bailiff grew very still. "Miss, are you in danger? Have you received a threat of any kind?"

She smiled wanly, his earnest expression making her quite sure that if she told him of the note that her fears would be taken very seriously.

But at the same time she did not want more trouble. She could be imagining Erik's interest in her, and he was already facing such steep charges, it seemed unfair to claim that a single note and a flower could have come from such a man, especially when he had been in custody for many months now.

"I'm sorry I brought it up. It's nothing. Really."

He didn't seem to fully believe her as he finished escorting her from the courthouse. "Miss, if you're in trouble you need to speak up. We take the protection of our jurors very seriously and just because we don't know of any associates with this… gentleman, that doesn't mean he doesn't have any. If you receive any threats, even if they don't seem very serious, I want you to tell me, okay?"

She gave him her most convincing smile. "I will. Thank you."

But as she walked away to seek out her lunch for the day, her conscience still prickling by not giving the bailiff the full details, she wondered if she had just made a terrible mistake by mentioning it at all.

* * *

><p>Sooo... looks like Christine bumped into a certain someone! And Erik wasn't too happy when he caught the end of their exchange... Think that means something? And what do you think of Poligny's business party? Trustworthy or no? And maybe there is something fishy about the security officer after all...<p>

Please review!


	9. Chapter 9

Okay, so I had intended to send this out earlier as my birthday gift to all of you, but festivities ran much longer than I anticipated so my good intentions were for naught! But I hope you manage to enjoy it anyway! Let's see what's up next at the courthouse today, shall we...

Onward!

* * *

><p>IX<p>

The rest of the afternoon was spent listening to an interview with a handwriting expert, who identified at least four different persons who had penned letters in Mr. Poligny's possession.

"And what about the final letter? The one that threatened to physically harm the deceased if he did not comply with monetary compensation?"

The witness held up a photocopy of the note and pointed to one of the words. "See this downward stroke? It suggests hesitation. At first glance the letters themselves are fairly consistent suggesting a single author, but this one in particular shows some interesting qualities. The oldest are almost childlike, the penmanship stunted… like if you tried writing with your non-dominant hand. Two other sets are far too round and natural, while the last makes a greater effort to appear like the older letters."

No matter how Christine squinted at the picture to which the forensic specialist referred, she could not see the specific marks that so clearly evidenced multiple hands had made the spiky scrawl. But Mr. Chagny made her recite her credentials, and even though Christine knew nothing about this field, she seemed a credible witness.

And if her testimony was accurate, it meant that whoever had first begun sending the letters was not the one who had threatened to kill Mr. Poligny.

Christine looked over at Erik. Despite his earlier conference with Mr. Chagny he remained as stoic as ever, giving her no acknowledgement. Ever since Mrs. Poligny had referred to him as _that _and shuddered at the mere thought of being intimate with him, he had seemed to retreat within himself—and for some unknown reason it made her heart hurt to see it.

Mr. Debienne had said that when they followed the instruction of the notes, their production actually improved. Had Erik simply communicated his musical prowess the only way he knew how? She did not fully understand what classified as extortion, but she didn't think that friendly suggestions left on a manager's desk should result in a prison sentence.

She hoped they would be allowed to look at the letters themselves soon.

Mr. Sorelli was not nearly so polite to the analyst, his tone automatically taking on a sarcastic nature that Christine found objectionable.

"Ms. Williams, how accurate do you consider your… interpretation of these samples?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you asking if I am confident in my testimony? Of course, otherwise I would not have agreed to come here today."

He shook his head, his smile placid and almost mocking. "Not quite. Is there, or is there not, still some debate about the validity of your field?"

This time she did nothing to hide her affront at his probing enquiry. "People in my _field _are widely respected for our analyses, Mr. Sorelli. Handwriting is like a fingerprint—everyone is different with subtle nuisances that become obvious to the highly trained eye. For you to insinuate that it is merely guesswork is an insult to forensics in general."

He raised his hands placating. "Did the defendant actually provide you a sample to compare to the letters?"

She looked somewhat disappointed. "Unfortunately not. Until recently he has not participated much in his own defense, hasn't said much of anything or so I'm told, and he was not willing to provide a sample."

Mr. Sorelli sent a triumphant smirk in the defense's direction. "So really, you have no idea which of the letters he has written."

"That isn't quite true."

His smirk fell. "What do you mean?"

"There was a considerable amount of writing samples found in the underground dwelling where Erik was discovered. From this I was able to infer that he was the same individual who had written the majority of the notes."

Mr. Sorelli frowned. "But you cannot be _certain._ None have actually witnessed his signature since his incarceration."

She sighed. "I suppose not."

Mr. Sorelli returned to his desk.

"Anything else, counselor? Or may we move on?"

He picked up one of the files from the neat pile on his desk and flipped through it absently.

Both lawyers had done this multiple times throughout the trial and it always gave the attorney an heir of credibility—that their questions were based on some submitted evidence and not merely rhetoric, and Christine wondered how many of these were merely props and how many were of actual use and purpose to their case.

"It has been suggested that the accused is of considerable intelligence. You previously stated, if indeed most of these letters were written by the defendant as you suggest, that the handwriting is stunted. Childlike. Is that consistent with high levels of aptitude?"

Ms. Williams appeared thoughtful, her words slow and carefully chosen. "Not… generally. But individuals on either end of the spectrum, from intellectual disability to what we might consider 'geniuses' have specific strengths and weaknesses. If Erik did not receive formal training in fine motor skills as well as lessons in how to properly form letters, it is reasonable to think that his penmanship would suffer. If I handed the average person a pen and demanded they write in cursive, they too would have trouble creating a fluid motion."

She looked over at him, this time her expression one of compassion. "It is entirely possible that he might not have had anyone to communicate _with._ Penmanship takes practice and if there is no one to help guide these skills…"

Mr. Sorelli cut in abruptly. "No further questions, your honor, and I would ask that you remind the jury that compassion, while an admirable quality, is not relevant to this particular case."

The judge nodded. "I agree. Jurors, the circumstances of this man's life are not relevant to the facts of the case. Please note only the testimony relevant to the nature of these letters and the probability that the accused was the one who penned them."

Christine stared blankly at the judge. How did they expect a person to simply disconnect their feelings from testimony? She understood that facts and evidence were predominant, but it _mattered _to her if Erik had never had anyone to write a letter to. It mattered if he was qualified by some innate musical genius to work in a theatre but his face and lack of social skills kept him from actual employment.

It mattered if he was only accused of this crime because he happened to be on the premises and it was easier to pin a murder on an ugly, lonesome man than actually find the killer.

It mattered if he had meant to be malicious or if he was merely trying to help.

But of course none of the lawyers truly answered _these _questions, and so she was left only to piece together what really happened with the snippets allowed in between objections and censures from the judge.

Court recessed soon after, and when she was about to exit the room, the bailiff approached once again. Erik was still seated at the defense table, Mr. Chagny speaking lowly in his ear, and she couldn't help but wonder once again what they talked about.

"You are certain there's nothing you want to tell me? I'd hate to find out tomorrow that something happened to you and I could have done something to stop it."

His face was once again the perfect picture of concern, but Christine cast one more quick glance in Erik's direction. His shoulders seemed straighter than before, and his head was tilted ever so slightly in their direction.

She smiled thinly, uncertain if he was attempting to listen to their conversation.

"Thank you again, but I'm sure everything is fine. I haven't been getting to sleep much and I'm probably just reading into things. I'd hate to stir up trouble over nothing."

He looked doubtful but didn't press further. "Alright then. But just so you know, we don't have a lot of information about the defendant. There aren't any known associates in the system but that could be just because _he's _not in the system. Don't even have a last name for him. But keep your eyes and ears peeled and tell me immediately if you get scared or think there's a threat. Okay?"

She nodded, her cheeks reddening despite her full understanding that he was simply doing his job and was not paying her any particular attention.

"You know…"

Christine glanced up at him. "Yes?"

"I hope you don't mind, and of course this would have no bearing on the trial but… I wondered if maybe you'd like to have coffee with me when this is all over."

She blinked. "What?"

He smiled at her, his eyes warm as he regarded her. "Coffee? Or tea if you'd rather. You seem like an interesting person and I'd like to get to know you better. When it wouldn't interfere with the case of course."

This time there was no mistaking the crimson blush that overtook her cheeks, and she swallowed thickly. He was handsome, there was no mistaking it, with a slightly mischievous look in his eyes that highlighted his youth. His job might be important but he always treated the jurors with a dose of good humor, especially when he ensured they had whatever they required.

She had been horribly embarrassed one morning but she had been forced to ask for a tissue, the cool air of the A/C making her nose itch terribly, and he had presented it with a bright smile and a flourish of white.

Richard had eyed her knowingly but she had resolutely ignored him.

He chuckled at her blank expression and tried again. "You know, go out with me when the trial's over."

Christine's throat felt tight and her heart began to pound rapidly in her chest. She didn't know anything about it, least of all why he thought her _interesting_, but she was so very tired of being alone and there would be time enough to change her mind by the time the trial was over…

"Alright," she managed to squeak out, cursing at how timid she sounded.

His brow furrowed slightly. "I don't mean to twist your arm or anything."

She smiled at him shyly. "That's not… I mean… that could be nice."

His grin widened immediately. "Good then. Something to look forward to." His expression grew more serious though and she looked about the room, but Mr. Chagny and Erik still seemed to be whispering about something and the secondary bailiff was stationed in the far corner. "Not that you should try to shorten the deliberations or anything. This is a serious matter and I don't mean to…"

She interrupted, not wanting him to think for a moment that she would let the prospect of a new friend and a cup of tea cloud her judgment. "I know what you mean. This is important and like you said, it's just something to look forward to, Officer…" His nametag supplied _Ryan,_ but she wasn't certain if that was the correct way to address him.

Not if he wanted to take her out for coffee someday.

"Joe. Well, in the courthouse it's Officer Ryan, but… I wouldn't mind if you starting thinking of me as Joe… you know, for later."

She held out her hand as her papa had taught so very long ago, and smiled as confidently as she could. "It's nice to meet you, Joe. I'm Christine."

She only allowed herself one last peek over her shoulder as they exited the courtroom, and she caught Erik's glare at the bailiff and wondered what had troubled him so.

And then he glanced at her with eyes so full of sadness and pain, and her heart felt heavy and sore for whatever had caused it… and even her timid smile at him did nothing to enliven his spirits before he returned his focus to the desk and she walked through the ornate oak doors.

It felt odd going straight home from the courthouse that day, but Marjorie had demanded Ewan put her on that night's shift and with five years seniority at the restaurant, he had begrudgingly obliged. Christine had initially been upset that the money she would have made was now going into another's pocket, but she did understand the woman's ferocity. She had a frequently ill daughter, or so she had regularly explained to the staff, and it was not unusual for her to beg to switch with another waitress—or in some cases snatch one away by going through management.

But perhaps a night off for resting and actually making something substantial for dinner would not be such a bad thing. Her rent had already been paid this month and with the extra money coming in from her jury duty as well as her evening tips, she actually felt that things were not so dismal after all.

At least not for the moment, and she would be grateful for it.

Winter was fast approaching, the cold winds and sudden rains promising a dreary few months to come. Christine had always liked the stormy weather when her papa was alive—they would share hot chocolate and he would tell her stories as they huddled near the ancient radiator. He would always scold her if he saw any hint of uncovered toes, absolutely certain that she would catch frost bite if she went without socks for even a moment during the winter months.

While their apartments had never been the finest, they had never been _that _cold, but she had indulged him as he fussed.

And now she so dearly wanted him to be there to worry over her, and her cold toes, once more.

The market was busy as it seemed most people were just now coming home from work, last minute items thrown haphazardly into metal carts with squeaking wheels before long lines meant short tempers and bruised feelings. Christine usually avoided the store at this time but she decided that she would treat herself to something special tonight in honor of her free evening.

Steak was not something she usually indulged in. Only on birthdays really had her papa thought it worth the expense, chicken or cheaper types of fish a more common meal in their home.

But as she had brushed her teeth that morning she noticed that her gums looked pale and after some consideration she realized that perhaps her frequent feasting on little more than bread, peanut butter, and a healthy spread of blueberry preserves was not adequate for covering the major food groups.

The butcher noticed her staring vacantly at the meat display, her understanding of the prices far outweighing her knowledge of which cuts were most desirable.

"Just for you?"

Christine didn't know what was so obvious about her single status, but Officer Ryan… _Joe…_ hadn't even questioned whether or not she had a boyfriend.

She just smiled at the butcher ruefully and nodded. "Just me."

He pulled out a package that held a single steak, and while she silently balked at the price, she hoped that it would be worth it.

He put a little sticker on the cellophane detailing how best to cook it before wishing her well and turning his attention to a mother, with two young children in tow who thought it great fun to poke idly at the chicken breasts and watch their fingers sink slightly into the tissue, giggling all the while.

The mother sighed tiredly before intervening, her children appearing chastened, at least for the moment.

Perhaps it was pathetic really, but as Christine unloaded her basket onto the belt and waited for her items to be rung up, she wondered what it would even be like to need to use a cart. To know what each of the family liked and to make purchases accordingly, special Saturday morning cereal for the children and maybe coffee beans for a husband.

Not that she knew how to make coffee as that required special equipment beyond her lone kettle that permanently resided on the stove. She wouldn't even have had that if it had not been left by a previous tenant—and after scouring it thoroughly it had appeared almost new, and it was one of her most frequently used item in her otherwise sparse kitchen.

It was growing dark by the time she finally made her way home from the market, the days growing shorter as the year drew to a close. She was certainly growing used to returning home during nighttime hours, there was something less foreboding about doing so while otherpeople still milled about, children held protectively by the hand as they hurried home for dinner.

But the healthy dose of fear that generally accompanied her on the way home did not allow for the loneliness to settle in, and she found she almost preferred her wary treks home to the despondency that inevitably followed too many thoughts and too much longing for something she had yet to create.

Her conversation with Joe had reminded her that a family to an orphan was not impossible. It might not include parents and that particular sense of home, but she did not have to be perpetually isolated. Her period of grieving, while necessary at the time, did not have to mean she locked herself away forever.

Her paper bag of grocery items grew heavy on her way home, and before she could put it down and rifle through her purse to find her keys, one of her neighbors poked her head out of the door.

"Christine, wait!"

Mrs. Dobson had lived in the building for decades, long before the surrounding area had become shabby and ill-cared for. But still she remained, claiming her little apartment was _home _and no matter what riff raff came to stay near her, she refused to move away.

Christine did not have much contact with her, their hours very different as she liked to go to bed as early as seven, frequently complaining to Christine that, "All the good TV programs go to bed early, so why shouldn't I?"

"Yes, Mrs. Dobson?"

She hoped that meat could stay out for this amount of time without spoiling, as the walk home and the long line had meant she was delayed longer than she would have liked.

"Some mail got delivered to me by mistake and I wanted to give it to you."

Christine sighed, shifting her groceries on her hip in hopes of relieving the pressure on her arm.

It didn't work.

She smiled at her neighbor as best she could. "I can come by later to get it. Thank you for noticing."

She finally found her keys that had worked their way into the bottom recesses of her bag, anxious to just get inside and cook dinner. Her stomach grumbled noisily at the delay, the promise of good food waking it from its otherwise placid despair and general emptiness.

"_Wait!_"

The vehemence of her demand made Christine pause, her key still nestled in the lock. "What is it?" For the first time she stopped and turned to her neighbor, hoping that nothing dreadful had happened to her and Christine had been too distracted and focused to notice.

"I heard someone at your door so I peeped out to check thinking I could give it to you, but it was a _man._"

Christine stilled. "A man? Doing what? Was it the super?"

"I don't think so! He was tall and all covered up. Said he was here to make a delivery and that I shouldn't worry… well, by the time I put my glasses on to get a good look and tell him I'd call the police if he didn't scoot, he had disappeared!"

Christine relaxed slightly. Mrs. Dobson was practically blind without her glasses no matter how she insisted her vision was more than fine, and regardless of how the cloudiness from the cataracts proved otherwise. He was probably just a salesman that one of the other tenants had buzzed in and she'd find a flyer on the other side of her door.

Now if she could only get _to _the other side of her door…

"I'm sure it's fine, but thank you for checking on me. I'll come by later to pick up my mail."

Mrs. Dobson looked wholly unconvinced and stationed herself outside her own door as she watched Christine enter her apartment. Christine made a great show of peering into the darkened space and proclaiming it unoccupied, and with a huff Mrs. Dobson retreated to her own home, muttering that this was _not _simply a deliveryman.

Nothing appeared amiss upon her cursory examination, but at that point her stomach was too hungry to allow time for a more thorough look about. She followed the instruction on the sticker as best she could, and while perhaps parts of it were a little too well done and others a bit more red than she liked, the steak was a welcome addition to her otherwise bland diet.

It was only when she was tending to the dishes that she glanced over to the counter where her rose, that had looked sad and droopy when she had left, was now fresh and lively.

Her nerves returned tenfold.

The piece of paper that she had so carefully propped against the glass was still there, yet the slightly crumpled corner was now crisp and smooth.

She told herself firmly that she was being terribly foolish and that _nothing _was truly amiss as she picked up the note, fully expecting the same words from before be scrolled across the page.

Except that they weren't.

_All good things come to those who wait, Christine. You can do better than a lowly bailiff._

And when a quiet tapping came at her window, it took all of her remaining self-control not to scream.

* * *

><p>Sooo... looks like Christine got asked on a date and she accepted! But it doesn't appear that everyone is as thrilled about it as she might be... Hm... wonder who wouldn't like her even considering the prospect of new relationship... What do you think about her beginning to question her "gifts"? Is she right to make enquiries about their source? And do you think her admirer has crossed a line by entering her apartment? Living quarters are very personal you know!<p>

I'd love to hear your thoughts in a review... consider it a birthday present to meee!


	10. Chapter 10

Okay, you all officially blew me away with your responses last chapter! I have _never _gotten that many. Ever. So I take it as yet another birthday gift and one that I value very, very much. So thank you thank you! But I'll stop gushing because I know I gave you all a very mean snippet so I'll be quiet and just say...

Onward!

* * *

><p>X<p>

With trembling hands Christine grabbed the heavy flashlight she kept for emergencies. It was not unusual for the power to go out in her building, especially during storms in the wintertime, and she always felt just a little safer with how it could almost be mistaken for a club if she held it a certain way.

But tonight she wanted the light, forcing herself to move toward the persistent tapping, the strong beam centered on the darkness beyond the window.

Only for her gaze to meet two eyes peering back at her, a face pressed against the glass.

She expected to see a burglar, a man with a malicious smirk as he waited to jump into her apartment and cause all manner of harm, but instead she was met with a baleful look and pink mouth as a young cat begged entrance into her home.

Belatedly she realized it had begun to rain, a low rumble in the sky a reminder that the weather could and would turn at any moment this time of year.

And without any thought to consequence Christine hurried to the window, wondering why it chose her window to stalk.

It was just a little thing, although Christine thought it looked big enough to be away from its mother. She didn't know much about animals, but as the creature willingly went into her hands and immediately released a pleased purr as she rubbed away what rain had managed to settle in its silky black fur, Christine was grateful it had come to her.

She had no idea how it had gotten trapped upon her fire escape, but as she peered at the golden eyes tinged with green, she was glad of it.

"Hello, little friend. Are you looking for a home?"

It released a squeaky meow in response, pressing softly padded feet against her arm before nuzzling the hand that still stroked its coat, this time merely for the pleasure of doing so rather than an attempt at drying her new acquaintance.

Perhaps it was her loneliness that made her want to keep it. She did not have the money for a pet, could barely feed herself some months, but as she sat down in her threadbare chair and the kitten began kneading on the soft flesh of her thigh, she wanted nothing more than to claim the little thing as hers.

She could have peanut butter sandwiches without the joy of blueberry preserves. When the trial was over maybe she could see about a second job, the extra money going solely to providing a comfortable and welcoming place.

And maybe then the empty corners of her apartment would begin to fill with things for her new friend, and so too would her heart begin to mend at no longer being quite so alone.

"Would you like to stay with me? I'll do my best to care for you… I promise I will."

The kitten meowed again, this time a persistent noise that did not quiet even as she spoke to it. The small body was awfully thin, its bones easily discernible beneath the plush fur.

"Are you hungry? I don't have anything for you…"

It mewled again, butting its head against her chest before looking up at her with mournful eyes.

And as her heart melted she resolved herself to making whatever sacrifices were necessary to care for this tiny creature. It needed her, and she could not possibly say no.

"I don't have anything for you here so I'll have to go to the store again." She cringed as she thought about how much food would possibly cost, but knew that it would be worth it. It had to be.

She felt dreadful leaving it alone in her apartment, its tummy too empty for it to sleep even in the circle of blankets she provided on her chair. But still, at least it would be safe and she would hurry, and then maybe they would sleep well.

Together.

Before she left however she did offer a shallow bowl full of water which did peak the kitten's interest—though it seemed more interested in dunking its paw in the cool liquid rather than drinking it.

With it sufficiently distracted she grabbed her coat and slipped through her front door, hopeful that she would be back before the kitten grew overly upset.

There was not much in her apartment that she cared about. Her furniture was sparse and second-hand, so if it decided that it made a finer scratching post than a sleeping nest she would not overly mind.

Most of the possessions she and her papa had shared before he died had disappeared. When social services had arrived she was told to pack a few things, the rest would be _taken care of, _although she had never seen what happened to any of it. Perhaps someone had informed her, but she had been so frightened and overwhelmed that likely she simply did not remember.

Maybe it was waiting in storage, gathering dust and hoping that someday she might come to rescue it from its forgotten state.

She had taken some clothes, shoes, and scrapbook of her favorite memories with her parents, and most especially the quilt her mother had brought from Sweden so many years ago. For as long as she could remember it had lain across the foot of her bed, and no matter how scared she was while living in the group home or trying to scratch out some semblance of a life in the intimidating city, she had her quilt for company.

And yet no matter how glad she was to still have some remembrance of home and family, it had never been enough.

The market was much quieter, the rain driving many people indoors. Christine was soaked through and she couldn't help but sniffle, the cold seeping through her coat and reminding her to keep her visit short—her nightgown and a cup of tea sounding all the more appealing.

Especially if she now would have a friend to share it with.

The pet aisle was a daunting experience. Rows of food that spouted all sorts of promises only made her further confused, completely unsure about what the kitten would prefer. Did they care about flavors? Chicken or seafood? Wet or dry?

And would it need a cat box?

An older woman with her basket heavy laden with all sorts of cans must have seen her frantic expression because she approached with a chuckle.

"Need some help?"

Christine nodded gratefully, her relief outweighing any embarrassment she might have felt at her ineptitude.

"New addition? Usually if you get them from a shelter they give you instructions on proper care."

Christine gave a little half-shrug. "It showed up at my window tonight and I'm afraid I've never had a pet. But it's crying and I figure it must be hungry."

The woman smiled warmly, a hint of pride in her expression. "It's good of you to take him in then. You'd be surprised how many people leave these animals out to fend for themselves. If you're good to him then he'll love you more than anything… and you'll never regret it."

Christine sighed wistfully. While there might be coworkers that cared about her, that was not all the same as being _loved_.

She had not been loved by someone since her papa died.

And now that she realized it, she practically ached to experience it again.

"That sounds wonderful, but I don't think it'll love me until I feed it," Christine gestured helplessly at the wall of supplies. "I don't have a lot of money, but if you can show me what to buy I'd be very grateful."

The lady laughed again, a low, full sound as she probed for answers about age and weight so she could better direct Christine as to what she should buy.

Before long her basket was filled to the woman's satisfaction, and she moved to walk with Christine to the checkout. But in talking with her about how to properly care for her new pet, Christine realized something important and with a blush she stopped her.

"How… do I… I mean, it's just a baby but…" She took a steadying breath and forced herself to blurt out her question. "How do I know if it's a boy or a girl?"

To her credit the older lady tried to hide her ever widening smile, but eventually she was chuckling openly.

"Well aren't you just the sweetest thing!" She never stopped releasing the occasional snigger even as she explained the differences to look for.

Christine never stopped blushing.

Her basket was full of food and smaller supplies but the woman had offered her cart to house the pail of cat litter and plastic bin that would make up her new friend's facilities, so together they unloaded their items onto the belt.

But when Christine moved to place the divider between their two orders, the elderly woman waved her away. "I'll pay for it, my dear. This will at least get you started and if your little fellow needs any doctoring you'll need your money for that."

Christine hadn't considered what it might cost to go to a vet, and she prayed that her companion would be of a healthy sort.

Because already she knew that she would rather empty her savings to help it rather than let it suffer.

"Really, that's very kind but you've helped enough and…"

The checker hesitated but the woman prompted him to continue tallying the items before directing the bagger to separate the bags. "I've taken in many animals myself over the years when they've come a'callin', so really this is quite the bargain."

Christine opened her mouth to protest once more but the woman turned to her, her expression stern. "You have to learn to accept some help now and again, dear. We don't make it in this world by ourselves."

Chastened, Christine relented and replied sincerely, "Thank you. Truly. I wouldn't have known the first thing about what to do."

The woman smiled as she tucked away her receipt into her wallet and pushed her own cart of items out toward the door. "There's always time to learn things, whether it's how to take care of a cat or how to accept some help when offered. Good luck, my dear!" And before Christine could situate all her supplies so she could carry them home, the woman had walked away.

"You gonna be able to get all that, miss?"

Christine smiled ruefully at the heavy tub of litter and the cat box that the bagger had piled all of the rest of the items into. "I suppose I'll have to."

Her arm ached by the time she made it back to her apartment, and the hard edge of plastic that she balanced on her hip had cut in through the layers of her coat and protested greatly to the treatment. But still, everything she needed had made it home with her and as she carefully opened her front door in case her little friend tried to bolt through, she was instead met with the sight of it curled up on her mother's quilt, its already small body looking impossibly tiny in the tight ball it had made itself.

As she closed the door and the bags rustled it lifted its head, especially interested when she opened a can of food and plopped a small amount into a dish. There was absolutely nothing appealing about the brown mush, and to Christine the smell was rather revolting. But before she could even turn to offer it, the kitten had reached up with its two front paws and clawed at her wet pant leg, mewling all the while.

She laughed at its enthusiasm and placed the dish onto the floor, pleased as it lapped greedily at the food she'd provided.

With it properly occupied with dinner she covertly scratched the length of its back, its tail raising on instinct as she tried to determine its sex.

And she tried not to feel ridiculous and perverted as she did so.

It certainly was not a girl, but it lacked the dangly bits that the woman had described of a boy, so clearly at some point he had been found by someone and fixed.

"No offspring for you, I suppose. But that's alright; it will just be you and me. How does that sound?"

He merely flicked his tail and continued to sup, paying her no further heed.

And it wasn't until she was tucked into bed that night, her bedfellow making a comfortable nest on the pillow beside her, did she remember the fresh rose and note that had frightened her so badly.

Yet no matter how long she thought about it, she could not decide what was best to do.

"You scared me, you know, when you scratched at the window. I thought you might be someone coming to hurt me."

He didn't appear very remorseful, finally deciding on a spot he found pleasing and lying down with a deep sigh of contentment.

Despite her remaining uncertainty of how to properly handle the _gifts _that had appeared, for the first time in a long while she felt a sense of belonging—and it was all thanks to the tiny creature beside her.

"Goodnight, Boo. Sleep well."

-X-

"What have you got for us today, Mr. Chagny?"

It had been difficult to leave little Boo behind as she headed to the courthouse that morning, but she reasoned that he could use the rest as his body became accustomed to plenty of food and clean water. He had not seemed particularly interested in _rest _in the darkened hours of the morning, and she had sacrificed a few pages of scratch paper as she crumpled them into balls and offered them as toys.

Those held his interest while she opened the rest of his toys that she had brought home the night before, colorful mice and plush balls with bright feathers soon littering her floor as the kitten pounced from one to another.

She was pleased to note that he had made use of the cat box during the night, and she wondered if that came from some previous training as a house pet or if cats instinctively chose such places to modestly eliminate waste. She had chosen the most private corner she could, although her studio apartment did not boast many options.

With one more kiss on his fuzzy head she forced herself out the door. Marjorie had claimed this evening's shift as well so she would not be able to work again until Monday. While normally she would have gone to Ewan and begged another shift, this time she was glad of the additional day's respite. She didn't know how Boo would react to be stuck indoors all day when he was used to the freedom of city life, and being gone for a thirteen hour stretch on his very first day did not seem prudent.

Still, she worried over him, hoping he would like the dry food she had left for him and that he wouldn't drown himself in the water dish and that he wouldn't trap himself somewhere and be sad and desperate by the time she returned.

She forced herself to turn her attention to the case however when Mr. Chagny rose and called a Mr. Louis Gabriel to the stand.

He was younger than most of the other witnesses had been, probably in his mid-thirties. His suit did not fit him overly well and he fidgeted often with his tie, but his expression remained grim and possibly even determined as he sat down and swore to speak truthfully.

"Please state your profession for the record, Mr. Gabriel."

He cleared his throat, his voice a low baritone. "I'm the chorus-master at the opera house owned by… well, just Mr. Debienne now."

Mr. Chagny smiled. "And for those of us not well versed in the running of a theatre, what exactly does that entail?"

"I'm involved in selecting members of the chorus, rehearsing with them, and overall conducting."

The defense counsel nodded. "And would you say that you're good at your job?"

Mr. Gabriel sat a bit straighter. "The reviews of our chorus are of the highest standing. I'd like to take a little credit for that."

"But in fact, they aren't _always _glowing accolades are they? For example, are you familiar with this review in _The_ _Gazette _from the performance on the thirteenth of March this past year?"

Mr. Chagny handed him a newspaper clipping, and the witness immediately scowled. "I am. That night a new soprano was introduced to the chorus; under much protest from myself, I can assure you."

"And what did _The Gazette _say about the performance?"

He glanced at the article but from his summation of it he clearly had memorized most of its content already. "They criticized my leadership, stating that I had clearly lost my touch for selecting talent because the new soprano clearly had none."

"But I thought you said that you were in charge of selecting members. Why would you put her in such a prominent role if you did not think her skilled?"

Mr. Sorelli rose. "Your honor, is there a point to all this? It was my understanding that this was a murder trial, not an exposé on the running of a theatre company."

The judge waved his hand for him to sit. "I trust there is a point to this, counselor?"

Mr. Chagny nodded. "Just coming to it, your honor."

"Objection overruled. You may continue."

He turned back to the witness. "The question is the same, Mr. Gabriel."

"I wouldn't have hired her if given a choice. The managers sometimes felt the need to indulge their patrons. If a particularly large donor wanted their son or daughter to get the 'full experience' of the theatre, they would be given a part, no matter their qualifications or talent—or generally the lack thereof. I would do my best to work with them but some, Ashley Wilkinson for example, was beyond my ability to teach."

"And how did you feel about this method of hiring?"

Mr. Gabriel sighed, his frustration evident. "I believe that music is an art, and that what we show the public should be an extension of our appreciation for its beauty. But when I'm not permitted to put forth my best work, it is… beyond exasperating."

Mr. Chagny nodded in sympathy. "Did you try to explain this to the managers?"

"I did! They just reminded me that they were the ones supplying my paycheck. And since most of the money that provided _for_ my salary as well as the rest of operations at the theatre came from those patrons, I should be grateful to be able to contribute my services wherever needed!"

"So they basically dismissed your concerns."

"Yes, even when reviews like this one," he waved the newspaper clipping with a look of disgust, "could ruin the theatre's reputation."

Mr. Chagny went to his desk and picked up a piece of paper and held it in his hands. "What did you do then, Mr. Gabriel?"

The man took a deep breath. Christine couldn't quite make out his expression. While he seemed embarrassed about whatever it was he was going to confess, he also appeared rather resolute as well.

"For years there have been rumors about a ghost in the theatre. My predecessor warned me when I was still in training that I shouldn't take any of it too seriously, that it was just a marketing tactic. But still, things would… happen and the managers would start making changes. Changes for the _better._"

He fiddled with his tie again. "A rumor had started that Mr. Poligny and Mr. Debienne were receiving letters, notes about how the opera house could be run better. And I… I was so _frustrated _that they wouldn't listen! So I… I wrote one."

Mr. Chagny walked closer and handed him what appeared to be a photocopy of the letter. "Can you identify for the court that this is the letter you gave the managers?"

Mr. Gabriel nodded. "It is."

"And what did you say you would do if they did not listen?"

He cringed. "I said that if they insisted on allowing a soprano to screech about on stage, I would give them a real reason to scream." He cast a sheepish look at the jury. "Not very clever, I know."

Mr. Chagny grinned slightly. "And did you have any intention of following through with that threat? Of making them 'scream'?"

He shook his head resolutely. "Not at all. I'm not a violent person I just… I wanted them to stop sacrificing our work for the sake of pleasing donors."

"What was the outcome of your letter writing?"

"They dismissed Ms. Wilkinson. The reviews got better." He sighed, his face serious. "I'm not proud of what I did, but I just wanted them to listen. I can't speak for any of the other writers, but I can obviously understand the impulse. If they won't listen to you, even when you're in an important position in the company, sometimes you're willing to go to extremes for them to heed your advice."

Mr. Chagny glanced at the judge. "Nothing further, your honor."

The judge motioned for Mr. Sorelli to begin, and he did so with a smirk already plastered on his face. "Mr. Gabriel, as you just stated, you cannot speak to the motives of the other letter writers. Can you say with absolute certainty that the man who wrote the letter just before Mr. Poligny's death did _not _in fact mean to do him harm if he was not given the money he requested?"

"No, of course not."

"And you claim that things usually got better for the theatre after the letters were received, yet some of them demand monetary contributions. Does that sound like an altruistic measure for the sole benefit of the theatre?"

Mr. Gabriel shifted uncomfortably. "No, but we don't make very much…"

"I have no further questions, your honor. This witness clearly has little to contribute to the actual _facts _of this case."

The judge frowned. "Careful, counselor. Mr. Chagny, would you care to redirect?"

"Just one question, your honor." He stood and faced the witness. "Why did you agree to testify today? You've confessed to extortion yourself, and yet you willingly offered testimony. Why?"

"It was the right thing to do. I have no idea if that man killed Mr. Poligny, but I couldn't have everyone thinking that all the letters were his—that there was no other explanation for their existence beyond malicious intent. I didn't want to hurt anyone; I just wanted our productions to be the best they could be." He gave a little sigh and a shrug. "I just wanted to be able to take pride in my work."

"Thank you, Mr. Gabriel, for your honesty. The defense rests, your honor."

The judge visibly brightened at this. "Very good, then nice and early Monday morning we will convene for closing arguments and the jury will receive their instructions before deliberation. Court is in recess until then."

Christine was anxious to get home to Boo but she couldn't help stealing one last glance at Erik as she passed. She wasn't expecting him to be looking at her as he had seemed to avoid her gaze ever since Mrs. Poligny's testimony, but today he was staring at her almost expectantly.

She gave him her customary smile, but today he did not return it, just continuing to stare as if waiting for… something.

And for the first time, it made her feel nervous.

* * *

><p>Sooo... one of you actually guessed that it would be a cat, so congratulations to <em>Addmein <em>for knowing my weakness for the small and fuzzy :) What do you think of the woman offering to pay for Boo's supplies? Anything suspicious there? And speaking of Boo... do you think he was rightfully named?

And it looks like at least one other person has confessed to being a letter writer... Does this makes you think that Erik is not guilty of the extortion charge as well?

I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	11. Chapter 11

Whooo almost forgot to update today? Let's see... Me! It was me! But we won't focus on that... instead, let's get to closing arguments.

Onward!

* * *

><p>XI<p>

There were no strange notes waiting for her when she arrived home, only a kitten that appeared highly ready for company. He wound himself about her legs as she fixed her own dinner, and then mewed pathetically until she conceded and placed a bowl of his own down on the floor for him to nibble.

Over the rest of the weekend she discovered that Boo much preferred to be stationed against one of her limbs than make use of the many toys she offered him. He played, to be sure, his colorful mice often brought to her to throw, and after bounding after them as fast as his short legs would carry him, he would deliver them back to her waiting hand.

But all of his naps took place while nestled up against her, tiny snores coming from an equally small nose, warming her heart and healing some hidden part of her that was so desperate for love and friendship.

Therefore when Monday morning came he made it equally difficult to leave, tucked as he was so soundly against her side, warm and cozy and showing no signs of moving for the day.

"Boo, I have to go to court."

As she tried to slip from the bed, one slit of an eye opened slightly, his displeasure obvious at being jostled. She did her best to tuck the covers around him in a semblance of a nest, but her apartment was cold and she was certain the blankets would be no substitute for her own body heat.

But with a heavy sigh he placed his head back down into the curve of his body, a small black lump in the center of her bed that made no other movement as she readied herself for the day.

Ewan hadn't called to inform her that Marjorie had taken another of her shifts so with great reluctance she rolled up a clean uniform and slipped it into her purse. She wouldn't be home until late that night and she hoped Boo would be alright by himself for the entirety of the day.

He had food and water to be sure and toys aplenty—most scattered across the entirety of her floor, but still she worried for him.

"Soon the trial will be over and I'll only have to be gone in the evenings," she promised him, bending to place a kiss on his silky black head. "And maybe we will reach a verdict quickly so no more early mornings for us."

He twitched slightly in his sleep and although she would much rather have stayed to watch him as he dreamed, pondering what visions would play within a kitten's mind as they slept, she forced herself to leave, locking the door behind her and offering a silent prayer that Boo would be alright.

It was raining on the way to the bus stop, large droplets that instantly permeated Christine's coat and soaked her hair. She smiled grimly as she redid her braid once seated within the confines of the bus, certain that if Joe had first seen her in her drowned state, his offer of coffee would not have been so readily given.

The security officer had avoided her since their confrontation the previous week, ensuring that his coworker was the one to search her bag and avoiding eye contact at all costs. She was wondering if she was being imprudent by not speaking with the authorities about what had transpired with the note and her suspicions about the guard, but she decided that surely asking the landlord about changing the locks would be sufficient. It was possible that she had left the door open and a deliveryman had simply walked in, as with the dingy nature of the hallways and some of the more shady characters that lived within the building, she could understand not wanting to leave another rose out on her doorstep.

Not that she approved of his intrusion.

She had never had anything worth stealing and while she was sure to lock her door when she was within her apartment, she easily could have forgotten as she hurried out in the morning to catch the bus for the courthouse.

She waited on her usual step for the doors to open, the rest of the jurors milling about the waiting area, and this time one of the middle-aged gentlemen leaned against the wall near her. He had a newspaper with him that he perused casually, although whatever he was reading about didn't seem to please him if the low grunts and head shaking were any indication.

Eventually he folded the newspaper with a sigh, before he seemed to notice her sitting there. "Happy that this seems to be coming to a close?"

She recognized him as the man who sat in the front row to her left, their positions making it so they had never actually spoken before now, but she realized that if deliberations started soon she would have to begin talking with each of her fellow jurors.

"I am, but I can't help but be nervous about trying to come up with a verdict." She bit her lip, hoping she hadn't said too much. They were forbidden from discussing the case, but she didn't know if merely mentioning the process counted as _discussion._

He smiled ruefully. "Afraid it will turn into _12 Angry Men?_"

She chuckled. They had watched the film in high school during civics class, and she definitely would like to avoid the arguments and dramatics that it had depicted. "Something like that."

Officer Ryan appeared and motioned them through the double doors of the courtroom, offering Christine a wide smile as she passed him, her cheeks reddening almost immediately in response.

"Good morning everyone," the judge greeted, his tone cheerier than usual. Christine hoped that meant he had a restful weekend and that he was not merely glad that Erik's trial was coming to a close.

"Now, I am given to understand that both parties have stated their cases and are ready to proceed with closing arguments, is that correct?"

Both Mr. Sorelli and Mr. Chagny rose and affirmed that they were indeed prepared.

"Very well, but first I would like to speak to the defendant."

Mr. Chagny glanced warily at Erik, but Christine supposed there was nothing he could do to keep the judge from addressing his client even if he so desired.

"Mr.… Erik. Can't say I've used anyone's first name in the court before."

Erik wasn't looking at the tabletop but Christine got the distinct impression that he wasn't looking at the judge either. His gaze appeared more fixed upon the seal behind the judge, large and imposing and crafted from materials Christine could not even begin to identify.

They didn't use real gold in such things, did they?

"The law does not require that you speak in your own defense, but you understand that by waiving this right you will not receive another opportunity to do so. Are you certain that you would not like to take the stand?"

When Erik made no effort to answer, Mr. Chagny intervened. "Your honor, my client's… ability to speak does not appear to always be… consistent. I can assure you that I have explained the functioning of the court and that he has verbally declined to testify. Vehemently in fact."

The judge frowned and his eyes narrowed as he regarded Erik, and Christine wondered once again if Erik was truly competent to stand trial. There were certainly people who lacked the ability to talk, but for it to simply come and go seemed more a matter of willingness to her rather than lack of capacity.

But regardless, she still cringed thinking about having to answer the interview questions during jury selection, and to have to relate personal information, especially given how blunt Mr. Sorelli could be…

She could easily understand his reticence.

"I'll accept a nod then, Erik. Do you understand that you forfeiting your right to speak on your own behalf?"

The _nod, _if it could in fact be called that, was only the barest incline of his head in the judge's direction, which caused the judge's frown to deepen. "Fine. Let the record reflect that the accused does not wish to provide testimony. Mr. Sorelli, would you like to commence with closing arguments?"

He rose, buttoning his suit coat perfunctorily. "Yes, your honor."

He carried no papers as he approached the jury box, he only walked slowly in front if it before looking each juror in the eye.

Christine thought it very uncomfortable.

"Ladies and gentleman of the jury," he began, his face a mask of solemnity. "You have heard a great deal of testimony over the past few weeks, with differing explanations for how the evidence could be interpreted. So let me state for you the facts."

Christine held her pen at the ready, prepared to write down the apparent facts once more and compare them to her previous notes.

"On the third of April a man was shot to death in his study, the handgun his own. Ballistic experts state that the trajectory could not have been by Mr. Poligny's own hand. A threatening note is found, one of a series of letters that progressively worsen in the level of threat as the victim refused to give in to the extortionist's demands."

He moved slightly to the side, ensuring he made eye contact with a different set of jurors as he did so. "Fact. We have video evidence of a masked man causing an 'accident' to the theatre shortly after another letter is ignored. Fact. We have DNA evidence that the mask found in the accused's possession was in fact _worn _by the accused, the very same type seen in the video. In addition, we have another victim who testified that a man in that identical mask attempted to kill him after he witnessed the delivery of a note."

He turned slightly and glanced at the defense table. "Now, my esteemed colleague would have you believe that the handwriting of the notes indicates at least four different people, yet also claim that the accused is of exceeding intelligence. Is it therefore beyond belief that he changed his handwriting according to avoid detection? Is it so difficult to believe that the defendant, hoping that one manager would prove more malleable than two, dispensed with Mr. Poligny to have his instructions met?"

He paused. "But I digress. I promised you facts. The fact is that the only man that is actually acquainted with the accused, considers him a _friend, _knows the priority that the defendant places on musical excellence. Perhaps he was truly trying to make the theatre great—that his suggestions would have improved the quality of the theatre if the mangers had listened. But as owners, it was their _right _to run the opera house as they so chose. It was their _right _to refuse to pay money to a man who promised disaster if he was not obeyed. It was Mr. Poligny's right to live."

He stepped forward and placed his hands upon the railing of the jury box, leaning forward slightly, his expression one of firm sincerity. "It is the State's contention that on that spring night, the very man who terrorized the opera house entered the Poligny home, and in an attempt to do away with a man who no longer would bow to his demands, staged his murder to appear as a suicide before disappearing back to the theatre he claimed to love. This speaks to premeditation. It speaks to motive, and it certainly speaks to skill.

"While the defense may argue that the defendant is too intelligent to be caught," he glanced at Mr. Chagny with barely contained derision, "I would remind the jury that there is no such thing as the perfect crime. There are always loose ends, there are always questions, but what is important is that we base our decisions on the facts and the most logical interpretation of that evidence. And in the case of first degree murder and extortion, I must posit that the accused is guilty; therefore it is your civic responsibility to hold him accountable for such actions."

He stepped back, his shoulders dropping slightly, his performance almost at an end. "If you find this man guilty of extortion it is because the facts support this conclusion. No evidence provided by the defense provides a definitive alternative, and as such, ladies and gentleman of the jury, I recommend you find this man guilty of all charges and bring justice to Mr. Poligny and those he left behind."

Christine found herself half wanting to applaud, but occupied her hands instead with scribbling down final notes and bullet points about the apparent facts. She supposed to a point it was true, Mr. Chagny did not provide another suspect with evidence on how they might have committed the crime, but she didn't think that was his job. She hoped the judge would explain soon about what they were actually supposed to base their decision on.

The judge nodded that Mr. Sorelli could sit and motioned for Mr. Chagny to take his place. Christine was mildly surprised by the subdued nature of his attire, his suit fitting much better than before and his shirt a mellow blue with a corresponding checkered tie that had not at all the flare of his previous selections.

Christine wondered if this meant he now had a girlfriend that not so gently pushed him in a more aesthetically pleasing direction.

If Mr. Chagny was nervous he hid it remarkably well, walking with confidence before the jury box, his smile warm and seemingly genuine. "Good morning, jurors, I hope this foul weather has not soured your moods for today's proceedings."

Christine gave a half-hearted smile in return, and she noted others made the same attempt at levity.

He sobered quickly enough, although he did not appear nearly as stern as Mr. Sorelli had.

"The State would ask you to convict my client on supposition—on conclusions drawn more from circumstance rather than fact. In reality, the prosecution has provided no direct evidence of my client's presence within the Poligny home. They have found no fingerprints on the letters, and my client has not even submitted a handwriting sample to be certain he penned _any _of the notes. Their DNA evidence links him to a mask found in the basement of the theatre—hardly the smoking gun they would have you believe it to be."

He walked the length of the jury box, his stride confident and his expression untroubled, so Christine supposed the pause was to allow them time to digest his words.

"I would ask you to consider something while making your decision. If you find yourself leaning toward a guilty verdict, take a moment to ponder the reason why. Are you doing so because the evidence, direct and indisputable proof, is leading you to believe that my client is guilty? Or is it because you think him a recluse—that surely he must be guilty of _something,_ and that the police and the prosecution would not have invested the time and expense of a trial for no reason. If it is the latter, I remind you that it is the prosecution's responsibility to prove their case beyond a reasonable doubt. And furthermore, I would submit that they have not succeeded. My client is a mysterious man to be sure, and he does suffer from a very great deformity, but by no means does that automatically prove him guilty of the crimes put before him. As his psychiatrist affirms, my client is not lacking in empathy, which the very nature of these charges implies."

His voice grew in earnestness, and Christine couldn't help but glance behind him to Erik, who remained as passive and unattached as ever.

"So please, think carefully as you deliberate, putting aside assumption and bias, and looking at the nature of this case for what it is—the attempt for the prosecuting attorneys' office to place blame based on circumstantial evidence alone. Thank you."

Mr. Chagny sat and the judge cleared his throat, garnering the attention of the jurors. "The court thanks you for your service, counselors."

He turned to the jury, and Christine decided she much preferred when his attention was on the attorneys. "And now for the one of the most important parts of our system, wherein I get to try to explain the nature of the charges and what constitutes guilt. I shall try to remember that all of you have your own professions away from the law and shall therefore try to keep it as simple as possible."

He looked at them all expectantly, and Christine gave another small but confused smile, wondering if he was trying to be humorous.

If so, it wasn't working.

The moment she had dreaded since learning of the charges was fast approaching and already the nerves that had long since quieted due to the length and repetitive nature of the trial returned tenfold. She didn't know how to do this, to take her notes and determine guilt, to fight with conviction if needed—not when her own thoughts were muddled and so very uncertain.

"The accused is charged with extortion. This involves a threat posed either to the person or the property of the victim. The intention must be to take money or assets that do not belong to said individual, and the victim would feel inclined to sacrifice those items so as to assuage the threat. It is important to note that within this state, the property is not required to have exchanged hands in order for the defendant to be found guilty, the objective of the accused must simply be proven."

He waited, and Christine wrote furiously, trying to jot down as much as she could. It wouldn't do to proclaim the man guilty simply because she couldn't remember precisely what the charge meant.

"As to the charge of first degree murder, intention is also a critical matter. The accused must have planned, implemented, and intended the death of the victim. This is not simply an accident, or a fit of temper, but includes premeditation. This does not necessarily mean that a conspiracy must be concocted, but before the murderous act is committed, it must be proven that the defendant deliberately set about to end the victim's life."

He paused again, and Christine felt the crushing weight of what these charges truly meant.

"Are there any questions regarding the specifications of these charges?"

Christine's mind was reeling from the gravity of it all, and the rest of the jurors were silent also. She wondered if they would be allowed to seek clarification later once they began discussing the case and they sorted out their thoughts.

"Alright then. Now, when deliberations commence you are obviously allowed to begin discussing the specifics of the trial with the jurors. If you have any questions you can direct them to Officer Ryan, as he will continue to see to your needs while you reach your decision."

Christine glanced his direction and didn't miss the way he grinned at her, his thumbs tucked in his belt loops, his pride in his job readily evident.

"I would like to clarify for you that the defendant may be guilty of one charge but not the other, so do not think that if you feel that the prosecution has not adequately proven his guilt on one matter that you must declare him innocent overall. However, it is also important to vote with your conscience. While of course you are to base your decision on the facts presented to you, your own personal beliefs and life experiences will influence your decision—that is merely a fact of life. Discuss the case in its entirety and reach the best conclusion that you can."

The judge tucked some papers into an open folder of his desk before turning back to the jury. "Now, I tell this to all of my juries, and I want to be especially clear on this one. To be guilty of a capital offense the jury must be unanimous lest a mistrial be declared, but do not allow that to sway your decision. You are not failures if you cannot reach consensus. It simply means that the prosecution will have to try again at proving their case in future."

His gaze swiveled to Mr. Sorelli and Christine couldn't help but notice something rather pointed in it. Was he suggesting that something was lacking in the prosecution? Perhaps she was not so misguided about thinking there were some holes in the witnesses' testimony after all.

"The bailiff will now take you to the jury room where you will sit and talk. The amount of time it takes you to reach a decision is entirely up to you, but I urge you to be thoughtful and ensure you've spent enough time looking over the evidence before forming any conclusions. Officer Ryan, please escort the jury into deliberations."

The jurors all rose and made to follow the bailiff from the main courtroom, but Christine couldn't help but glance once more at Erik, hoping that she could glimpse some manner of truth from him so she would know what decision to make.

For she did not want her opinion to rest solely on the interpretation of facts presented by Mr. Sorelli and his smirks and lack of compassion.

She wanted it to be based upon the truth.

And if Erik had indeed hurt Mr. Poligny, if he had fully intended to cause harm to the theatre workers as some of the letters seem to indicate, then he should face those consequences.

But as he met her gaze and gave a little half smile before nodding for her to hurry along, all she felt was more confusion—both for the way her heart beat faster at his attention and the way her thoughts grew all the murkier.

And as they all settled around the table, notepads scattered across the tabletop and people eyed one another nervously, she didn't have the first idea of how she could do this.

"Now, who thinks he's guilty?"

* * *

><p>Sooo… Christine is settling into life with Boo, the attorneys have rested their cases, and now it's up to the jurors. Is anyone disappointed that Erik didn't take the stand? Any ideas of why he would have refused?<p>

Next up, deliberations! And then after that… Are we all ready for a verdict? Is it too soon?


	12. Chapter 12

Well, it was suggested that as a Thanksgiving gift to all of you, I post this chapter early. I'm not sure how many will find time between family and food to read, but here it is anyway! I'm so incredibly thankful for all of you who read, review, encourage, and harass for updates. Without your constant support I would not _ever _have written anything beyond my first book.

But speaking of, _Destruction of Obsession_, it was brought to my attention that I have some new readers now who were not privy to that particular story the first time it was posted. So in honor of the holiday, for _**three **days only _the Kindle version will be available for only **99 cents**! (The sale begins on November 30th at 12AM PST, and ends December 2nd at the same time; a link to my author's page can be found on my profile). So hopefully that will make it more accessible for all of you that are interested in my other works :)

Now, enough of that. We have some deliberations to get to!

Onward!

* * *

><p>XII<p>

Richard smiled broadly next to her, but upon seeing her answering glare he held up his hands placating. "I'm just teasin'. Of course we've got to talk about it first."

The businessman that Christine had spoken to that morning was seated across from her, and with his smart attire and general aura, people already seemed to look to him for direction.

The older woman beside him, her knitting needles already out and clicking rhythmically glanced about the table. "Should we begin with introductions?"

Richard chuckled. "Sorry, ma'am, but the odds are I won't remember any of your names in any case. Let's just talk about the case, shall we?"

She pursed her lips, obviously displeased at the lack of personal detail, but Christine was almost glad of it. In this room they were not friends or even acquaintances. They were simply a group of peers banded together with a mutual charge—to determine the guilt or innocence of Erik.

Officer Ryan had suggested they arrange themselves in order of jury number about the oblong table. "Seems like things go more smoothly when the process stays neat and tidy. And I take it you all don't want to be in here forever, right?"

There was grumbled confirmation as the trial already seemed to have gone on for far too long, but a part of Christine didn't want for it to be over. While she still dreaded this decision, it still felt oddly fulfilling to be a part of something important, and she would be a little sad to see it end.

Especially if that end included watching Erik and his shy smiles being led from the courtroom in shackles.

"You'll need to select a foreman; it helps to keep things organized. They usually guide the talks, make sure all the evidence has been looked at, and typically initiates the votes. That member will also deliver the verdict, so I suggest someone who doesn't mind public speaking."

Christine shrank back in her chair but didn't miss the knowing smirk Office Ryan sent her direction. Clearly her dislike of talking before the court had not gone unnoticed.

"Some people prefer anonymous voting, but you're welcome to simply discuss your opinion openly. We just like to give our jurors options." The bailiff deposited a basket of scrap paper and short pencils onto the table. "Now, I'll leave you all to talk, but I'll be back at noon to get you lunch orders."

Christine perked up immediately. "Lunch?"

Officer Ryan's grin widened. "Yes, lunch. You thought we didn't feed our jurors? That we lock you in a room with no food or water to hurry along a verdict?"

She blushed and gave a little half-shrug. "Hadn't really thought about it. But maybe if I'd known you provided food I wouldn't have fought jury duty so much."

He chuckled. "I'll let the CSO know that we should have it put on a brochure in the lobby. Maybe more people would start reporting for duty." He turned his attention to the other jurors. "I'll be stationed right outside if you need anything. Either give a knock or stick your head out and I'll assist you."

He left then, and Christine's embarrassment grew as she noticed a few of the jurors looking at her meaningfully—Richard among them. "What?"

He scoffed good naturedly. "Oh, nothing. Maybe they should also add 'dating service' on that same brochure; that should really get the young folks involved."

"So, about that foreman vote," the business man cut in loudly. Christine smiled at him gratefully and he winked. "Anonymous or out loud?"

Silently the jurors reached for the scraps of paper and scribbled, and Christine assumed that from the lack of names they were meant to write down the number of the person they found most qualified.

It came as no surprise to her that her suit-clad hero was deemed foreman. "I suppose you could all call me Juror Number 11, but I usually go by Stephan."

The rest of the jurors simply stared.

"Right then, we have a lot of evidence to cover, so should we just start in the order it was presented?"

Richard held up his hand. "I think we should start with an initial vote. Get a feel for what everybody's thinkin'. Maybe we'll find out we get to go home sooner than we thought." He glanced at Christine, "Except some of us might hold back a response just for the lunch."

Christine glared as best she could, but he only pretended not to notice.

Stephan glanced about the table. "Does anyone have a problem with that?"

She most certainly did. She was counting on the discussion and actually getting to look over the evidence to help her come up with an answer, and yet now they wanted her to write down a firm verdict without having either.

She was about to raise her hand and tell everyone precisely that, but the rest of the jurors were already scribbling on the little scraps of white, and it seemed too late to object.

So she stared blankly down at her own, not having the faintest idea what she should put down.

Stephan leaned forward, his voice low. "This is just to get to know the feel of the room, it isn't binding."

Christine looked up, fiddling with her still blank paper. "But what happens if we all voted the same way? What if I can't take it back and then the verdict is in and I haven't gotten to look over everything?"

He smiled and reached across the table, grabbing her paper and writing _undecided _upon it "There. Happy?"

She leaned back in her chair, her relief genuine. "Very."

Stephen nodded. "Good. Now, everyone finished?"

The rest of the jury passed along their papers, each in varying degrees neatness in their folds. Stephen even went so far as to shuffle them before making three neat stacks.

Christine noticed that her non-vote alone made up the third category.

"Alright, so for our initial count we have five innocent, six guilty, and one undecided."

A young man, probably in his late twenties, groaned. "This'll take forever, won't it?"

Stephen frowned at him. "This will take however long it needs to. If you were on trial, wouldn't you like to know that the jurors took enough time to be sure of their answer?"

He rolled his eyes. "If I wanted to commit a crime, I sure as hell wouldn't get caught, so there wouldn't be any deliberations to begin with."

The woman next to him shook her head. "Such confidence. The prosecution said it; there's no such thing as the perfect crime. Even the smartest person can make a mistake, and so it's up to us to look at the evidence."

Stephen cut in before anyone else could interject. "An excellent point. So let's start doing precisely that. I suggest that we look at the extortion charge first and work our way up, how does that sound?"

The others mumbled their agreement and Christine relaxed slightly. While of course blackmail was very wrong, there was something at least a bit comforting knowing that the death penalty could not be enacted should she vote Erik guilty.

Richard grunted. "The extortion all comes down to the letters, and I for one would like to see the handwriting that was causing such a to-do between the attorneys."

Stephan nodded. "I agree, could someone ask the bailiff to please bring in the letters?"

Richard leaned closer to Christine, "Yeah, missy, how about you go ask the officer for them?"

Christine turned and glared. "I do _not _appreciate your teasing, Richard. He's just doing his job and I'm trying to do mine! Whatever comes later is our business."

His eyebrows rose. "So there is something between you."

The middle aged woman seated across from Richard rose sharply. "I'll do it." She sent an exasperated look toward Richard, but he merely smiled placidly.

Christine wanted to hit him.

Officer Ryan brought in a box, presumably filled with the evidence of the case. "If you would like to see the video again let me know and I'll have a TV brought in."

Stephan thanked him and he left again with a nod of acknowledgment.

"Alright, letters…" Stephan rifled through the bin, pulling out numerous files and reports until finally he seemed satisfied with his discovery. "Should they be read aloud or should the file just go around the table?"

It was mutually agreed that it was far preferably to actually get to _see _the notes and Christine waited patiently for the folder to make its way to her, the other jurors making comments every so often about their observations.

"I don't see much of a difference."

"That's why the defense brought in an expert. I can't tell the difference between a diamond and a cubic zirconium either, but I trust a jeweler's assessment," another replied.

"Rather vague, aren't they? I mean, other than the last one, most don't even mention money of any kind. Is it really extortion if it doesn't involve money?"

Stephan interrupted. "I don't think that's what the judge said. As long as there's a threat to the property or the person directly if the demands are not complied with, it would be extortion."

Juror 4 hummed and passed along the folder.

Christine couldn't help peaking at them as her neighbor skimmed the notes briefly. When hearing the expert's testimony she had expected the handwriting to vary widely, the differences in authors obvious. But instead they were all quite similar, yet also vaguely familiar.

Finally it was her turn and she flipped through the photocopies carefully. They appeared to be in order, dates in blue ink scrawled across the upper right corner, and she supposed a timeline had been established by some credible method.

"Couldn't they have divided up the notes by the writer? How are we supposed to know how seriously to take the threat if we don't know who sent them?" Christine asked, frustrated already by the lack of organization. There were holes in the testimony and as she looked over these notes, there seemed to be some missing there as well. They began almost abruptly, with little introduction or list of initial demands. Perhaps Mr. Poligny had discarded the initial letters, dismissing them as merely a prank. Or had only the letters that seemed the most nefarious been submitted into evidence?

She did not like that idea at all.

"Maybe not. Because if the expert was wrong, then for them to divide up the notes could cloud our judgment," Juror 12 piped up.

Christine sighed. A salary was mentioned in one of the early notes, along with a list of demands, none of which seemed particularly outrageous, at least not to her.

_Someone has trespassed in my private box under the pretence of initiation. I would humbly suggest you do not allow the imbeciles in your employ to take such liberties again, especially not for their own amusement. The little chorus girl they frightened into leaving had great potential. A pity. _

Christine frowned. Initiation? Miss Jammes's testimony had clearly indicated that tales of the Opera Ghost were often bandied about the theatre, and clearly some poor girl had fallen victim to a prank from her chorus-mates. While she didn't think she would ever believe that a ghost was inhabiting her workplace, she knew that other, more superstitious types could do so and be terribly upset by it.

She flipped to the next note.

_Do your ears lack even the most basic functionality? If so, I suggest you contact the necessary physician so this problem may be remedied. The supposed tenor you have hired for Doctor Faust should be disallowed from venturing from the baritone persuasion. I shall give you one more opportunity to make a proper cast before I will be forced to directly intervene._

She did not know much of _Faust _in particular, but if it contained challenging pieces that specified a well-qualified tenor, then casting a baritone would certainly have been a foolish thing.

_Evidently, whether it be the hiring of performers with a modicum of talent, or janitorial staff capable of noticing and tending to necessary tasks, you prove unwaveringly incapable. Some of the less worthy patrons of this theatre deigned to leave chewing gum under the seats. See that this distasteful reality is dealt with posthaste._

Despite the serious nature of their task of deliberations, Christine smiled.

_I believe that in my first correspondence I detailed the terms of my continued cooperation, yet my salary has been hereto unpaid for the past three months. Even a ghost may lose its patience, dear M. Poligny. _

She read through the rest of the notes, yet no matter how she looked for a reoccurring tone that might suggest murderous tendencies, they seemed more like reasonable recommendations and not the rantings of a madman intent on ruining the theatre. And a consultant was allowed a fee…

She passed along the notes to Richard, her frustration growing. She could not excuse a man's behavior simply because he smiled at her. Mr. Sorelli had been correct that the managers had the right to run the theatre however they so chose, whether or not it fulfilled its full potential.

And no matter how much she might wish to, she could not simply rationalize away bad conduct.

Richard made little grunting noises as he perused the notes, and as he read Stephan addressed the table. "I think the first order of business is to get an idea of who thinks the handwriting expert was credible, and that the witness… Mr. Gabriel, was telling the truth when he confessed to sending one of the notes? By a show of hands…"

Eight of the twelve jurors raised their hands, and Christine noted with a grimace that Richard was not one of them. "That's a start at least. Would any of you that voted no like to explain your reasoning?"

Unsurprisingly, Richard piped up. "First of all, how do we know that the defense didn't bribe that theatre guy into saying he had written one of them? But even if he had, it's only the one letter and there are a bunch of others that are incriminating enough."

Christine shifted in her seat so she could look at him. "So because you have doubts you assume he's guilty? I thought that 'reasonable doubt' meant that we were to presume him innocent—that the prosecution had not proved their case."

"You're just a girl, Christine, so I can see why you'd be so soft-hearted. It's not a bad thing, just not practical when it comes to law and justice."

Christine's mouth dropped open, but before she could retort, Juror 12 interjected. "Hey, now! She's an adult in this country, the same as you! And just because she's young and happens to be female doesn't mean that we shouldn't listen to her point of view."

Stephan raised his hands in a placating manner, "Okay, I can see we've gotten off topic. I'll remind all of you that who we are personally isn't relevant—we're a group of twelve _peers. _And I think that… Christine, was it? Has a good point. We can't be voting guilty just off a gut feeling, that's why we're examining the facts. Does anyone else want to explain why they don't think the expert was credible?"

Juror 5 raised his hand. "It's not that I don't think she's credible… I just don't think the field is infallible. Witnesses said that the guy is highly intelligent, and I'm just not sure that it's too much of a stretch to think that he could change his handwriting… kind of like a security measure for just this reason."

The older man beside him groaned. "This isn't about conspiracy theories! There's always going to be some convoluted plot that a particularly creative person could concoct, but we should just stick with what is plausible in _real _life, and not what would make scintillating reading in a crime novel!"

Officer Ryan suddenly entered, a set of takeout menus in hand. "Time for lunch orders! Take a look, see what sounds good and I'll come back and get everyone's choices in about ten minutes."

He took special care to ensure to give Christine a menu personally before placing the rest in the middle of the table for the rest to grab.

She couldn't help but feel flattered.

The prospect of food was a welcome distraction from the deliberations that seemed to be getting nowhere. If they couldn't even manage to settle the question of extortion, she hadn't the least idea how they would ever reach a consensus on the murder charge.

The prices for lunch were much larger than she typically spent, and she felt like it was quite the treat to not worry about what sacrifice she would have to make in order to afford a sandwich with bacon rather than scrimp and simply choose the least expensive. And maybe she would also get a cup of soup…

They squabbled a bit more waiting for lunch to arrive after giving their orders, and when Officer Ryan returned, she was startled to find a brownie tucked in with her sandwich and soup, but when she turned to tell him of the mistake he merely winked at her and grinned. "Thought you could use it."

And once she had promptly ignored Richard and his pointed smirks, she found that she was able to thank him for it without stuttering and blushing overly much.

A brownie had never tasted so good.

A few of the jurors continued to discuss things while they ate, but Stephan seemed content to enjoy his food and read the paper, and Christine was grateful for the break. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to begin with the extortion charge. Mr. Chagny had made an excellent point—if Erik was guilty of either, it didn't seem plausible that he was guilty of both. He either penned the majority of the letters and was interested in money and the betterment of the theatre, or he had written the final note that led to the murder of Mr. Poligny.

And while it was not the most logical as she did not know him, not at all really, she dearly hoped that he was only guilty of extortion.

She savored every bite of her lunch and even tucked away a bit of it in her purse to save for later.

While guilt nibbled at her for thinking it, she almost hoped deliberations took a very long time, simply so she could have such a bounty again.

But once everyone had eaten, Stephan tucked away his newspaper and their discussion began anew—this time with Christine promising herself she would speak with more conviction the next time the opportunity arose.

"So, we've all seen the letters and still seem to have differing opinions on who wrote them and what they mean overall. What about the murder charge? Anyone have specific thoughts they'd like to share?"

Christine took a deep breath before speaking. "I just don't think there's any evidence that directly showed that Eri… that the defendant killed anyone. No one saw him there. There aren't any fingerprints on the gun except for Mr. Poligny's."

Some of the jurors nodded, but Richard gave a grunt. "All that means is that he cleaned up the scene. With all the TV shows and info on the internet, it's not too farfetched to think he knew how to do it. A witness already testified that the defendant tried to kill him!"

Christine opened her mouth to argue but Stephan cut in.

"Yes, let's discuss…" he rifled through his notes, "Mr. Buquet's testimony. I had jotted down a few discrepancies in his story."

The woman next to him scoffed. "You mean like how he swore on his mother's grave, only to find out that she's alive?"

Stephan smiled thinly. "Precisely."

"Okay, so what? We just throw out what happened to him? Even a drug addict can be attacked."

Christine glanced at the young man who spoke, his expression rather strange.

"Are you speaking from experience?"

She couldn't believe she'd asked something so personal and given how many people stared at her in surprise, she was not the only one.

He was quiet before giving a little shrug. "So what if I am? It's still true."

Christine smiled sheepishly, trying to soothe the awkward tension in the room that she'd managed to create. "You're right, and I'm sorry. But I still think that his potential involvement in that crime doesn't necessarily prove him guilty of this one."

"Agreed," Stephan confirmed. "And what about the testimony of the wife? She had never seen the accused either at the house or at the theatre."

Another juror snorted derisively. "I doubt she'd really have noticed. She reeks of self-absorption."

Richard cut in. "What about his friend? He clearly suggested that this crime was something the man would do."

"But that isn't proof!"

"Well, he must have done _something _if a friend would come forward like that!"

The squabbling rose in volume, and Christine sank back in her chair, already exhausted.

They had only been talking for a few hours, but their ability to communicate and reach a decision seemed only a dream—one that she was beginning to doubt they could make a reality.

But what would that mean for Erik?

* * *

><p>Sooo... still no dialogue from Erik, but at <em>least <em>we got to read some of his letters! Assuming he actually wrote them... Are deliberations going how you expected?

I wish all who celebrate a safe and happy Thanksgiving! And maaayybbe if I still get reviews you'll also get an update on Saturday... but if not, I'll see you all in December! (Apparently I'm not above extortion, even on a holiday...)


	13. Chapter 13

Your reviews have spoken, so an update it is! And the _Destruction _sale has begun, so if you want a more "true to novel" read, you might want to take advantage!

Now, onward!

* * *

><p>XIII<p>

Deliberations were as difficult and exhausting as she anticipated. The only bright spot within the hours spent pouring over evidence and arguing with other jurors about what could have really happened that spring night, came in the form of lunches brought to her by Joe. He often threw in an additional treat for her that she hadn't ordered, and she surprised herself by how much she was growing to appreciate his thoughtfulness.

Evidently all it took to woo her affection was the promise of food.

She wondered if that made her easy.

But what worried her was the way her performances had suffered since deliberations had begun. Tensions were high in the jury room and by the time she dragged herself to work she was so emotionally exhausted that it was hard to imbue her songs with any semblance of the life and passion they deserved.

It came as little surprise to her when Travis pulled her aside and suggested she voluntarily take herself off the roster until the trial was over, lest Carlotta do it for her and there was no telling when she would deem her fit to perform again.

Christine took no pleasure in lying, but still she claimed a sore throat as the reason for her inability to sing, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that it wasn't a complete falsehood. Never had she argued so much in her life, and her vocal chords did twinge and protest even from the simple process of greeting guests and taking orders.

What hurt her most, however, during the entire process, was that each day they continued to have difficulty reaching a conclusion was another long day that Boo had to spend locked away in her apartment without company. He was a good boy, only mildly terrorizing their home in her absence, but his loneliness was plain whenever she returned. At first he had taken to shunning her, sleeping only on the farthest edges of the bed and refusing to purr when she pet him and tried her best to apologize for her busy schedule.

Yet every morning she would awake to him tucked up against her, sleeping soundly and clearly happy to have her near, no matter for how short a time.

And for eight days she had dragged herself from that very same bed and gone to court. She had sat in a room that she was certain would become her sarcophagus if they did not reach a verdict soon.

Then on the ninth day, with the jurors tired and patience thin, a final vote was cast. Officer Ryan was called in, and with a nod of his head he led them back into the courtroom, the judge and the attorneys settling in for the last time.

Christine wondered if they simply sat in here, waiting for the jury to return or if they were allowed to leave, tending to other affairs but ever ready to return to the court when the verdict was in.

And what did Erik do during that time? There had been very little time between when they had finished and when they had returned to their jury box. Was he kept in a solitary room, somewhere safe and private where people wouldn't stare? Or perhaps there was a cell in the bottom of the courthouse for defendants awaiting trial.

Visions of dungeons and rats filled her mind, and she pushed them away firmly.

He did not look particularly nervous as he stared at Officer Ryan conversing quietly with the judge. He was dressed as nicely as ever, his suit of the finest quality, the black a stark contrast to his otherwise pallid complexion.

Yet to his side, Mr. Chagny fidgeted, straightening his polka dotted tie and fiddling with his cufflinks in some kind of nervous rotation.

The judge cleared his throat and nodded his thanks to the bailiff who stepped away and returned to his usual position,

"Would the jury foreman please rise."

Stephan obeyed, and Christine offered him her silent support. He had done his absolute best over the course of their discussions, trying to keep the arguments productive instead of merely hurtful. It was amazing to her how many conversations had dissolved into accusations flung amongst jurors, Erik's supposed actions forgotten as perceived slights were argued instead of facts or evidence.

"Officer Ryan tells me that there have been some problems in the jury room, is that correct?"

Stephan smoothed his suit jacket. "That's correct, your honor."

"You have been deliberating for nine days. Nine. Rather an incredible number."

Christine's stomach did an uncomfortable flip. She had tried to remind herself frequently that their decisions had to be based on conviction, and a lack of consensus did not necessarily equate to a failure as a juror.

Even if that was what inevitably had occurred.

"Your honor, despite our best efforts we have been unable to reach a unanimous decision, on either charge."

The judge frowned. "I see. And you do not believe that given more time or further clarification you could reach such an agreement?"

Stephan glanced almost imperceptibly in Richard's direction. "No, your honor, I do not."

"Fine, then I have no choice but to declare a mistrial, and call an end to these proceedings." He picked up his gavel but hesitated before allowing it to make contact with the sounding block. "But first, I'd like to say something to Mr. Sorelli."

The prosecutor looked surprised, but stood all the same. "Yes, your honor?"

"Doubtless this will not be the last time you appear in my courtroom, and a word of advice before it happens again. Cases have been made using circumstantial evidence before, but in my experience they lead to situations like these. Next time you decide to bring charges against this man, I suggest you have something more concrete. Do you understand?"

Mr. Sorelli's mouth pressed into a firm line, but he managed a quiet, "Yes, your honor."

"Excellent, then I would like to thank our jurors for the time and effort they have put into this case. Please do not think that because you could not reach consensus that you were in any way unsuccessful in fulfilling your responsibilities. I am certain you did your best with what was put before you."

Mr. Chagny rose. "Your honor, I'd like to make a motion to release my client from custody. It could be some time before the DA's office is prepared to proceed with a new trial, and he has spent months in lockup as it is—to the direct detriment of his health and wellbeing, I might add."

The judge nodded. "Given the _thin _nature of this trial's evidence, I find that I agree with you, counselor." He gave one last glance toward the prosecution, his displeasure with his case obvious. "Court is adjourned; Erik, you are free to go."

Christine glanced over at him, a bit in shock that it was all suddenly over. Mr. Chagny was offering his congratulations and while Erik nodded and quite begrudgingly shook the man's hand, there was no sense of relief, no joy at being able to walk out of the courthouse of his own free will.

Officer Ryan approached, interrupting her view of Erik's reaction. "Jurors, please pass forward your notepads. After that you're welcome to head out."

She was a little surprised that they didn't get to keep them. She had grown rather fond of her legal pad with all her scribbles and pictures. It was like a journal of her time here at the courthouse, and with some reluctance she passed it to the bailiff.

The other jurors began collecting their things and shuffling out of the jury box, but Christine was still deciding if she could ask Officer Ryan for her notes back when Richard's voice interrupted her consideration.

"He can still be tried, you know. Maybe this time with more mature individuals who can see guilt when it's put right in front of their faces."

Christine turned and glared at Richard, tired of his incessant need to sound superior to her. "Or maybe he'd be faced with people who didn't feel the need to judge him solely on supposition! After all we talked about, how could you continue to sit there, day after day and call him guilty? What evidence was there that unequivocally proved he had committed those crimes? Was there any? Because I certainly did not see it!"

She gathered her purse, her own emotions frayed and she wanted nothing more than to be free of this courtroom. But as she stood, her hands shaky and her temper short, her purse tumbled and its contents spilled and rolled across the floor of the rapidly emptying jury box.

And Christine wanted to cry.

No matter how she and the others who were convinced of Erik's innocence stressed that reasonable doubt easily applied given the lack of direct evidence, some members refused to be swayed.

They had decided Erik's guilt the moment they had first sat within the jury box, and no manner of discussion or imploring could affect them.

So now it was possible for him to be tried again. And what if the next time more jurors were selected that were as blinded by prejudice and he was found guilty on the same inadequate evidence?

She stooped to scoop up the contents of her bag, and with a groan she noticed that some of her lip balms and pens had rolled down the step to the lower section. But before she could retort, Richard felt the need to continue the argument. "And you don't think you've approached this entire process with your own set of biases? You feel sorry for the man so you're prepared to overlook anything he's done just so you can feel good about yourself. Well, I'm sorry, missy, but that's not good enough for me. You were lookin' to accuse that widow because she didn't cry enough on the stand, so she _must _be somehow involved. But I'm tellin' you that the man over there has plenty of evil in him, and you're blind if you can't see it."

Officer Ryan approached, his face set and all trace of the saucy smirks completely gone. "Is there a problem here?"

Richard shook his head, brushing past Christine as she still knelt on the floor, too stunned to form any kind of reply. "No, I'm done here."

And then he was gone.

Officer Ryan entered the jury box and helped fish out the rest of Christine's items that had fallen too far for her to reach on her level of the seats, and he handed them to her with a worried expression. "You alright? Trials can be tough."

Christine took them, a numbness overtaking her that was not at all pleasant. "Did I do that? Did I see what I wanted to see and that's why we couldn't reach a decision?"

She glanced over at the defense table, half expecting Erik to have fled the courthouse already to enjoy a taste of his reinstated freedom. Instead he was watching her, his expression inscrutable.

"Look, the judge was right. This was not Sorelli's best work and it was a tough call."

Christine sank back onto her heels as she peered up at him. "But what if he did it?"

Joe offered his hand to help her back up to her feet. "Then they'll find more evidence and charge him again. But if he didn't do it then there's likely nothing to worry about." He smiled then, this time his good humor readily evident. "Now, I believe we agreed to coffee after this messy business was over with."

Christine stuffed the rest of her belongings back into her purse, trying to settle her nerves. She was grateful for his sympathy but she still felt anxious and overwrought. She _did _want to go out with him, she decided, but if she was going to make it through the dinner service she was going to need time to collect her thoughts.

"I know, and I want to. But I have to catch my bus to get to work and I can't be late."

Joe hummed thoughtfully and glanced down at his watch. "Well, how about I buy you a cup for the road. It'll be quick, I promise. And then…" he added, a touch of mischief in his eyes, "you can give me your phone number and we'll set a time for when it doesn't have to be so rushed."

There was such an easy manner about him that she couldn't help but return his smile. "I see, so all this to wheedle my number out of me. That must be a very good cup of tea you're buying me."

She hoped it wasn't too presumptuous for her to assume he was buying, but from the way his grin grew at her response, he did not seem overly upset by her banter.

"And you seemed to think your discernment was lacking. Regular Sherlock Holmes over here."

She blushed. "I really do have to catch my bus."

"Well then, let's not delay! It would be a terrible thing for you to have to hitch a ride from a stranger from the courthouse."

They walked toward the exit, Joe holding open the swinging door that separated the trial area from the spectator seats. But before she passed through she gathered up as much courage as she could and turned to Erik.

She didn't know what possessed her to do it—she really was pressed for time and it was doubtful he'd want to hear anything from her. But she couldn't let him walk away thinking that she had voted against him.

"Excuse me?" She didn't intend for it to sound like a question, but Erik and Mr. Chagny were still talking lowly and she saw the attorney pass something inconspicuously toward Erik. She wasn't sure if she was meant to witness the exchange, and she didn't know if her interruption would be welcomed.

Yet they both turned, Mr. Chagny smiling warmly. "Yes?"

"I just… um…" She managed a shy glance in Erik's direction. She had known he was tall, but now as she stood so much closer, she realized just _how _tall and it dwarfed her frame considerably. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry we couldn't reach a decision. And that I… I didn't think you were guilty. That's all."

Joe was practically laughing at her as she rushed passed him and hurried out the courtroom doors, although he caught up to her quickly. "Well that was _very _nice of you! I'm sure he feels much better about things now."

She glared at him but it lacked any true feeling behind it. "I didn't want him going the rest of his life thinking that I considered him a murderer."

_"__And _a blackmailer. Can't forget that part of it."

"Right. I just… we run into people every day. The other jurors, the attorneys… _you…_ and then we just go about our lives. I just… if he thought about me at all afterward, I wanted him to know what I really thought."

He was quiet for a moment as they walked together, Christine following as she had not the least idea which of the many shops about the courthouse he had selected. Finally she could no longer take the silence so she added, "You think it's stupid."

He shook his head in disagreement. "No, I don't. I think it's kinda sweet. Like I would have wondered what would have happened if I hadn't asked you out—if you'd have said yes and then I'd regret it forever."

Christine rolled her eyes. "You're setting your expectations awfully high. I don't think it would plague you _forever_." She nibbled at her lip before boldly adding, "But I'm very glad you did."

He smiled down at her. "Me too."

The coffee shop he selected was completely unknown to her, and looking at the daunting menu with its infinite variations as well as hearing the complicated orders those in front of her conveyed, she was almost glad that she had never acquired a taste for coffee. Instead, she could only somewhat haltingly order a cup of black tea, feeling relatively confident that it would be drinkable.

When she moved to rifle through her purse in search of change, Joe waved her off. "My treat. You're giving me the honor of walking you to your bus stop—wouldn't be right for me to make you pay for more than enduring my company."

His own selection was a simple cup of black coffee, and while he waited patiently for Christine to doctor her tea with cream and sugar, his drink remained unchanged.

"You've got that down to a science. Maybe tea drinkers are just fussier."

This time she was leading them toward her stop, and she supposed he must have a car of his own since he didn't know where the bus picked up passengers. "Careful, you don't have my phone number yet. I'd hate to have to withhold it because you were being rude."

He gasped in mock horror. "I should hope not!" But then more seriously he added, "You really want to go out with me? You didn't seem so sure about it when I asked the first time."

Christine fiddled with the lid of her cup, the hot beverage warming her hands soothingly from the otherwise biting cold of the afternoon. "Sorry, I'm just… nervous. I've never really done this before, and I just… I have my routine, you know? But I'm finding that it's kind of lonely and…" She took a sip, pleased that the tea was in fact a good strong blend. "I'm ready for a change."

"I'm sorry about your dad," he responded quietly.

She glanced up at him, surprised. "How did you…"

He shrugged easily. "Jury selections. Not much else to do but listen to all the interviews." He smiled again, this time rather impishly. "And let's face it, you stand out."

She hoped her red cheeks would be mistaken for a reaction from the cold wind that was picking up rather than the embarrassment it really was. "Thanks. It was a long time ago but sometimes it still..." She took another sip, her throat feeling tight. Her determination to make more of life might have brightened her outlook, but evidently it still hurt to talk about him.

She wondered if it would be different if she could speak with someone who knew him—had witnessed what a kind, talented man he had been. But instead there were only strangers, and while they meant well, there were no shared memories, no fond anecdotes to be shared.

And still it caused an ache in her heart to think of him.

"Well, this is my stop."

He glanced around, and she wondered what he saw.

They had reached the dingy bench and shelter, but Christine made no move to enter it. While it would have been nice to get out of the wind, there were always crude things written inside as well as unidentifiable substances clinging to the worn partition, and she rarely subjected herself to the confines, let alone expose Joe to them.

"I'm sorry if I made you sad. I just wanted you to know I understood. My dad died too when I was young—killed in the line of duty. But at least I had my mom. Sounds like you had an even rougher time of it."

She gave a little shrug. "I think it's hard, no matter what. And I'm sorry about your dad too."

Joe nodded and pulled out his phone. "So… now that I've managed to make things depressing and awkward… can I still have your number?"

She pushed away the lingering thoughts of her papa and mustered up the brightest smile she could. "I think so, just so long as you promise to use it."

"Now that you can count on."

She urged him to return to the courthouse but he insisted on waiting until her bus arrived, and they chatted about much more pleasant things until finally it pulled to the curb.

He helped her up the steps with a promise to call for a proper date, and with a final thanks for her cup of tea, Christine was once more on her way to work, her heart pounding.

She had no idea if he'd really call or if things would work out in any way. But the prospect of it was nice, she decided. It made her feel less forgotten, and that was something quite refreshing.

Work was long and tedious, but she had at least felt gratified as Ewan looked pleased to hear that she could return to her previous schedule.

"Not that you're not welcome back here at dinner!" he assured her. "But the lunch service has been rather… lacking in talent while you've been gone."

She laughed and assured him that she'd be more than happy to take back her regular shifts the following week.

The walk home was bitterly cold and she tucked the collar of her coat more firmly up about her ears. This was one particular aspect she would _not _miss now that the trial was over.

Boo was pleased to see her, demanding food and plenty of cuddles that she was only too happy to provide. There were no strange gifts, no notes that suggested that anyone was watching her. Ever since the fresh rose and note had arrived, all such gifts had halted—which merely proved to her that it was all some sort of misunderstanding.

The rose was looking sad and droopy, but still she had not yet had the heart to get rid of it—the last vestiges of excitement in her otherwise monotonous routine. But Boo must have somehow managed to climb onto the counter in her absence, for the notes that had once been propped against the glass had been pushed to the floor.

"That's very naughty, Boo. Kitten paws do not belong on the counter!"

He blinked lazily from his spot on the bed, clearly waiting for her to join him.

She picked them up, and before shoving them in a drawer she glanced at the contents, her brow furrowing.

For hours she had poured over the letters for the trial, the handwriting argued about for far longer than she had even thought possible. And clearly deliberations were causing a strange form of madness in her, for it looked remarkably similar to the notes she currently held in her hands.

Frustrated, she placed it into the drawer, determined to look at it again in the morning after a long night's rest. Her thoughts were muddled enough as it was, and there was no point getting hysterical when likely her eyes were merely playing tricks.

But when she awoke the following morning, she was no longer in her little apartment or her familiar bed.

And it didn't seem quite so hysterical to think that a madman had been stalking her after all.

Especially not when a figure in the corner of the room began to move.

* * *

><p>Sooo... We have a verdict! And Christine actually spoke to Erik directly! (Progress!) But now I think I've left you on an even worse cliffhanger... Who do you think has Christine? So many options! Officer Ryan? The security guard? Erik?<p>

See you next Saaaattturday!


	14. Chapter 14

Whooooo almost forgot to post today? You guessed right, it was meeee! I blame a heavy dose of PMS. And Advil. And hot water bottles. And too many episodes of _Criminal Minds. _

Anyway, you don't want to hear about that. Yooou want to know who has Christine!

So, onward!

* * *

><p>XIV<p>

Christine had awoken slowly.

She shifted slightly between the sheets, her limbs free and unencumbered by the warm lump they had grown so accustomed to contorting around so as not to disturb her bedfellow.

The sheets felt different. While hers were softened with age and frequent washing, these were an unfamiliar kind of soft, as if the fibers themselves had been especially crafted for a luxuriating sleep, rather than beaten into submission from years of use.

The pillow was plumper, the scent different—as if the expensive brand of fabric softener had been employed rather than whatever was on sale.

Her thoughts were fuzzy as she at last opened her eyes to peer about the room, certain that she would see Boo waiting on the floor for his breakfast, her thoughts of the strange bedding an elaborate illusion from a mind not yet fully rested.

But as she glanced about, there was nothing remotely similar about the room to the little studio apartment she had called home for so long.

For a moment she felt almost numb as she tried to make sense of her new surroundings, but when a figure appeared from the corner, tall and imposing and his face covered fully in a mask, her fear emerged, strong and forceful.

"Stay away from me!" She tugged at the blankets as she brought them up almost like a shield, then scoffed at herself for her stupidity. As if they would be of any real use if he… if his intentions were to…

"Your fear is not nearly as becoming as your smile. You were not so scared of me before."

The room was dark, no morning sunlight breaking through flimsy curtains, a warm reminder that even in the midst of winter there was reason to get up to begin the day.

Instead there was only a single lamp in the far corner, doing little to illuminate the space and causing menacing shadows to cling and quiver as the man moved toward her.

"_Stop _moving!"

To her relative surprise he obeyed, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "I shall repeat, there is no reason to be so frightened. You are perfectly safe."

She tried to quell her panic, tried to calm her racing heart so she could think better. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on the door with intense longing.

"If you would prefer to continue our conversation in the living room, that would be most acceptable."

Her gaze flickered back to him, not at all understanding his calm demeanor as she tried to process his initial words. "What did you mean, 'before'?"

He sighed and took a tentative step closer. Maybe he only meant it to be a small movement, but with his natural stride it brought him uncomfortably near to the bed.

To her.

She recoiled, her back pressed firmly against the headboard.

And perhaps absurdly, she wanted to dive back under the covers and pray to awaken in her own apartment, all of this merely a dream.

"Calm yourself, Christine. I can practically hear your heart beat with terror. There is no need. You are safe and I mean you no harm."

She stared at him incredulously. "No harm? You took me from my home!"

Thoughts of home sent a new wave of distress as she pictured poor Boo locked away in her apartment. She had not told anyone that she had taken in a pet, so none would come looking, no one would know to come to feed him, to clean his litter box, to kiss him and give him cuddles…

"Please," she tried again, this time measuring her voice as best she could. Her orders had so far not moved him in any way, but perhaps if she pleaded for the life of her cat… "I have to go back home. No one knows about my cat and while you may not care about me, you wouldn't let a kitten starve to death, frightened and alone would you? Just… let me take care of Boo…"

She didn't mean to start crying. But if anything her words only seemed to offend him as he drew to his full height and crossed his arms, his eyes—eyes that seemed to glow even in the dim light of the room—narrowing the longer she spoke.

"You believe I left your familiar behind? Why would I have given him to you only to then allow for his demise?" His head tilted to the side, and his tone was one of genuine confusion. "You did not think me a monster before. What has changed?" His eyes narrowed further and he stared down at the bed as if it had somehow displeased him, even as his voice began to soften. "Is the bed not to your liking?"

She gaped at him, her tears beginning to abate. "I… what…"

And then suddenly she realized. The tall figure with his suddenly his masked features. Handwriting that she had studied so carefully in the jury room that was so similar to the notes delivered with her roses…

"Erik?"

"One and the same." This time he really did bow, and as her confusion rose, her fear began to abate.

At least a little.

"What are you doing? Why…"

His mouth, what little she could see of it, formed a thin line. "Perhaps we shall save that particular discussion for another day. I believe it is customary to consume breakfast at this time."

He stepped closer and offered his arm, but she only stared at it, her thoughts all a jumble. "Another day? Erik, what is going on? The trial was over! You were free to go! What am I doing here?"

"Not today. You will not like it if we discuss it today. You will be angry and then you will not wish to smile at me anymore."

So dumbfounded was she at his presumption that she would wish to smile at him _now _that she could not manage to scrounge up a retort.

"Now, while I understand that you may not wish to touch Erik yet, I would advise you do so; at least until you ensure that your legs are functioning adequately."

It was all too much. Her relocation, learning that the man she had defended for weeks was now capable of kidnapping… she was overwhelmed and frightened and didn't have the least idea of what she should do.

So numbly she reached out and took his arm, gratified that she was still in her oversized nightie that she had donned before going to bed.

Had it really only been the previous night?

"Why wouldn't my legs be working properly?"

Erik watched her carefully as he opened the door and ushered her into a comfortable looking living room. "Everyone reacts differently to a sedative. It is therefore best to be cautious."

"Oh."

How was one to respond when an intimidating man so calmly states that a sedative had unwittingly been given?

She felt so incredibly stupid. Richard had been right. While she had criticized and condemned other people for judging Erik for his appearance, she had been guilty of the opposite. Instead, she had managed to excuse everything so as to be kind to him, certain that a harsh world was merely refusing to see the good in him. She had felt sorry for his circumstances and was now facing the consequence of her naïveté.

Her legs did feel a bit sluggish as she shuffled to the sofa, and she was grateful when she was seated and she could pull her hand away from his arm.

The living room had a fireplace, a welcoming blaze adding warmth that the bedroom had lacked. There were more lamps as well, and now that she could see properly, she noticed that he was still wearing a fine suit, similar to the ones he had worn to court. It had felt soft beneath her fingertips, and clearly she had been correct about their fine quality.

She still felt the urge to cry.

Especially when she heard a plaintive meow and she saw her little Boo walk in from some unknown part of their prison.

"Boo!"

She forgot about shaky legs and muddled thoughts as she hurried to scoop him up, bestowing kisses wherever she could.

He gave a mild squeak in greeting that eventually gave way to a lowly rumbled purr as he enjoyed her attention.

"I am pleased you are so taken with him."

She found it much easier to focus on Boo than to glance at Erik. "How could I not be? He's perfect." She swallowed thickly as she systematically checked over his silky fur, looking for any evidence of hurts.

There were none.

"What did you mean before… that you had given him?"

Erik gave an elegant shrug that she caught from the corner of her eye. "He came upon me during one of my… outings. I could hardly leave him to starve and I am certain the facility would not have appreciated his presence so I brought him to you."

His head tilted ever so slightly to the left. "You did not mind, did you? I did not want you to be _lonely._"

There was something strange in the way he said that, as if he was nearly mocking the word.

But Boo began to wriggle, having had quite enough of her affections and hesitantly she obliged by placing him on the floor. Her distraction gone she forced herself to look at Erik, his mask disconcerting in the extreme. "I was lonely… I have been for quite some time."

It felt wrong to ask him anything. She still did not know why she was here—why he had taken her. And while she was relieved that Boo was safe and not forgotten, the fact that he had brought him seemed to indicate that she would be with him for quite some time.

And that frightened her considerably.

But his mask only made things worse. It was clear from his posture in the courtroom that he was uncomfortable with his face being on display, but she had no idea that he took to covering it so in other circumstances.

She realized then that Mr. Chagny had been offering his mask back to him before he had even left the courthouse.

Had he donned it and immediately began plotting her abduction?

She shuddered.

"Are you cold? I admit, I am unused to others being in my home and I was uncertain of a temperature you would find pleasing."

She crossed her arms over her chest, wishing she had a robe to cover her nightgown. There was nothing immodest about it—and in some perverse way she was grateful that he had taken her so late in the year when her short nightgowns had long since been abandoned in favor of warmer variations.

But still, she was unused to appearing so in front of a man, and it made her uneasy.

"Please, why do you wear the mask? It is not as though I do not know what you look like, and… and I know who you are. So you can't think I couldn't give your identity to the police if I ever…"

"Escape? Doubtful, but I will not insult you by suggesting you are incapable of finding a way out, however slim the possibility might be." He said this so matter-of-factly that she had to suppress another shiver. She had heard the doctor's testimony—that he _knew _things that other men wouldn't. She had believed him when he spoke of his great intelligence, but to have it used against her…

"But to answer your question, I wear the mask for your benefit as well as mine. You were subjected to my hideousness for far too long, and you needn't be reminded of it now."

That caught her by surprise. "I didn't… that wasn't what I was thinking when I looked at you."

He chuckled darkly. "Wasn't it?" He stopped and looked at her curiously. "Yet you barely look at me _now. _Does that mean that you enjoyed looking at a freak? I did not think you cruel."

Christine shook her head, that feeling of being completely overwhelmed returning tenfold. He was unstable, that much was clear. He gave no indication of what he wanted of her, and she was wholly unprepared to deal with any of this.

She staggered back to the sofa and sat down, the cushions a welcoming softness in contrast to her lumpy one back home.

"What am I doing here, Erik?" she finally asked, already feeling tired and worn.

She wondered if going back to bed was a viable option.

He didn't answer, not at first. He merely stared at her, unearthly still and so very tall even from the respectable distance he kept between them. She folded her legs up underneath her, biting back her inquiry if he minded that her feet would be on the furniture.

Surely when one was kidnapped they were allowed a bit of rudeness.

"I do not think it is wise to answer that question now. You are not crying and I should like to keep it that way for as long a time as possible. Perhaps when you are more settled."

She felt hysterical laughter bubbling up within her, and she released a choked sound that made Erik's eyes widen with alarm. "Settle in? So I am to stay with you? Here? I have work! I have a life and you… you cannot simply…"

He folded his hands meekly in front of him, and he bowed his head in some strange semblance of supplication. "You would not have wanted to see me. You would not have come with me if I had simply asked."

Christine blinked dumbly. "I _fought _for you. Others thought you were guilty and for days I argued that you hadn't done those terrible things." She laughed bitterly. "I guess I was wrong."

Erik moved then, but not to throttle her as she had half-expected. Instead he went to the mantel and picked up a notepad.

And as he shuffled through the pages she caught a glimpse of doodles and scribbles in handwriting that looked suspiciously like her own.

Her dread intensified as did her embarrassment.

For he would see precisely how fooled she had been by her own perceptions, a gullible child in a world meant for seasoned adults with wisdom and experience.

A world meant for those who understood the law.

"_Erik is not a monster. _You wrote that, did you not? One of your fellow jurors did not reach over and maim your page with it?" He turned the notepad so that she could indeed see the phrase that she had stared at more than once during deliberations. It had been a source of comfort, a reminder for what she argued for when others seemed determine to think the worst of him.

It mocked her now.

"Yes, I wrote it," she admitted quietly.

"Excellent. For a moment I feared I rescued the wrong legal pad from extermination."

He continued to flip through the pages, and a sick feeling settled in her stomach. No one was supposed to see it—that was made very clear. Her notes exposed every thought and doubt she had throughout the trial and now he was casually perusing them.

Perusing a piece of her.

And what if he found something that angered him? She didn't know him, not at all really. And she was alone here, and he was so much bigger than her…

"Please, give it back."

His head tilted again. "Why?" There was nothing mocking in his tone, no indication that he thought her stupid for her words, but that did little to lessen her discomfort.

"It was supposed to be private. Just my thoughts on the case and questions I had."

He hummed and flipped to another page. "Not so. There are quite a few illustrations as well." He peered closer at something and for a moment she wished the sofa had the ability to swallow her.

It would be just her luck to discover that this man was also a brilliant artist, and at any moment he would laugh at her childish attempts.

She didn't know why that thought bothered her.

"Is this where you wish to live?"

He showed her the basic castle she had sketched into the margin, the stones terribly uneven and the turret all askew.

She tucked her knees under the skirt of her nightgown and rested her head on them, trying to not feel ashamed for her silliness.

"What girl doesn't want to live in a castle," she defended weakly.

He hummed again, a musical sound that would have been quite lovely if she was not feeling so terribly agitated. "I suppose. We may live there in time if you wish, but I must warn you, they tend to be quite drafty. You do not seem to like the cold very much."

She lifted her head and glanced at him. "Why do you say that?"

He smiled almost wistfully, the softening of his demeanor a direct contrast from his otherwise imposing figure. "You bundle. While others would walk in and wait for the centralized heating to warm them, once the weather turned colder you were never without full regalia—hat, scarf, gloves, coat, and so forth."

She blushed and tried to ascertain why. Perhaps it was the newness of being _noticed _so thoroughly. She could have understood if Richard had noted and thought to comment since he generally was the one who witnessed her morning ritual of stuffing such items into her purse so they wouldn't be lost for the walk to the bus stop, and on more than one occasion had picked up an errant glove or her hat that came free from the woolen bundle.

But Erik had noticed for some other reason, and it made her nervous.

"I like the cold very much."

He paused in his perusal of her notepad. "Oh?"

Christine nibbled her lip, wondering if it was wrong to divulge more than that. He had yet to state any of his intentions, had scoffed at the very idea of her trying to escape this place, and yet she merely sat on his sofa and considered explaining her opinion of the colder months.

But she was tired of thinking—was tired in general, and she decided that if he did something blatantly harmful, exhibited something truly obvious that he meant to hurt her in _any _way, then she would fight for all she was worth. But for now she would try to enjoy the comfortable couch and maybe the more he spoke to her, the more he would begin to realize all of this was just some terrible mistake.

Nothing that couldn't be rectified by simply seeing her home.

Preferably with the loan of a coat so that she did not have to face utilizing public transportation in nothing but her nightie.

"I like getting to wear my coat and gloves and hat. I like that the cold means thawing out with a cup of hot tea with my bed piled in blankets. I like watching the snow outside and thinking that it covers all the ugliness in the city in something pure and clean and… good."

She had stared into the fire as she spoke, but risked a peek at him in order to judge his reaction.

As intensely as she had watched at the flames, so too was he looking at her now. "I don't like walking in the rain much, though," she added awkwardly. "Gets me all wet and keeps me cold when I'm sitting in court or trying to serve tables."

He nodded, his eyes unmoving. "A terrible nuisance." She couldn't help but fidget uncomfortably as he continued to stare at her.

"May I… I mean… Do you have a robe? Or some clothes I could change into?"

He blinked, almost as if coming out of some kind of daze before returning her notepad to the mantel. "Of course. Forgive me; of course you would like some proper clothing."

Of the list of things that currently bothered her about Erik, she was not so certain that forgetting to provide her a robe was in fact the most disturbing.

She followed hesitantly when he returned to the bedroom, but she lingered outside the doorway as he opened a wardrobe and turned to her. "Well? Do you intend to change in the living area?"

She eyed the clothes hesitantly. They didn't seem terribly lewd or horrid in any way, but it seemed… very wrong to choose to be in the same room with him.

Especially a bedroom.

He frowned. "I see."

He took a step forward and she scooted a bit more to the side, not at all certain why she felt so ashamed at trying to preserve her modesty. Erik was in the wrong here, not her. And yet every time she considered doing something impolite, years of ingrained etiquette rebelled, leaving her feeling guilty and rude.

But instead of vacating the room as she had hoped, he opened an adjoining door. "The facilities, should you require them. I can assure you that these rooms are your own, and I will do my utmost to respect your privacy. There are locks, however," he eyed her sternly, "they are of little encumbrance to me should you do anything _foolish._"

She simply stared at him, not at all certain to what he could be referring. Keeping him out of her room? That did not seem so very foolish. Desiring to bathe and dress without a male audience? Also a reasonable desire.

"Foolish?"

He sighed. "I know you are confused, and I have not… adequately arranged for your stay here. I can assure you, all of this," he made a vague gesture about the room, "was not my intention." He took another breath, and this time his tone was soft and pleading. "But please, do not try to do yourself harm until I have at least explained myself to you."

She swallowed, words failing her. "I… I wouldn't… that hadn't even occurred to me! Why would you say something like that?"

Erik shifted ever so slightly, and she rather thought she'd embarrassed him. "My apologies. It seemed a worthy precaution."

Her eyes narrowed, her bewilderment offering some semblance of bravery. "Do you intend to do anything that would _make _me consider it?"

His mouth fell open. "Hardly."

Some small kernel of amusement made her smile, despite the dreadful situation. "Alright then, so for now may I please have some privacy to change?"

He nodded and moved past her, allowing her to have the bedroom to herself.

But before she could close and lock the door, no matter how futile the action might prove, he stopped her, his slender hand pressed against the thick wood of the door.

"Christine…"

He was so very close to her and the way he was looking at her made her heart beat a little faster.

"Yes?"

He appeared ready to say something, something important, but instead he merely sighed and allowed his hand to fall away. "Everything shall be well, you will see."

And as she closed the door, she sincerely hoped she could believe him.

* * *

><p>Sooo... those of you who guessed it was Erik, you were proven right! The question remains, then, why did he take her? They had built a very decent rapport so he <em>must <em>have a good reason, right? What do you think it might have been? Any of you upset about his actions or are you excited for what this will mean for him?

And can we all at the very least be glad that he's finally spoken?!

I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	15. Chapter 15

Well, so far you've all been very good sports about Erik's... rash decision making. He and I both thank you for it! I think it's important for us all to remember that there's nothing... normal... about our dear Erik (no matter how much he'd like to pretend!) so with that is going to come the bumps and challenges of his... unique approach to doing things.

Anyway, one quick side note. If you guys see typos, as always, _please _feel free to point them out directly. I do what I can (as do my pre-readers and Beta) but we're all capable of error (well, except for Erik. He's never made a mistake a day in his life.), and so if something sticks out at you and you feel so inclined, just let me know and I will fix it!

But enough of that. Onward!

* * *

><p>XV<p>

The tendrils of fear licked at her heart as soon as the door was shut and she faced the shadowy bedroom once more. She hurried over to the bedside table and fiddled with the lamp, but no matter how she looked or touched or nudged, there did not seem to be a knob of any kind that would turn it on.

She barely contained her whimper.

She had never much cared for the dark.

Her papa had said her imagination was too vivid, that as soon as a single wisp of some terror made its way into her mind, she couldn't get it out again. He would laugh and tease in order to soothe her, opening cupboards and closet doors with all the dutiful care of a loving parent. Yet even with his demonstrations that there was in fact nothing horrible lurking in the darkness, Christine would beg for a small light to be left on, lest she worry that some creature would rise from underneath her bed and latch on to any extended appendages.

And to her embarrassment, this had continued well into her adolescent years.

But then there was no papa to frighten away her ghosts, and she had become well practiced in moving quickly from switch to lamp, a trail of light in her wake.

Yet in Erik's world he seemed to control even illumination, and that did little to soothe her already frayed nerves.

At the very least he had turned on the light within the bathroom, which did add a certain brightness to the bedroom as she searched through the wardrobe for something appropriate.

She wanted to be covered. She wanted something that was not in the least bit alluring. But as she looked through the clothing so carefully placed on wooden hangers, she realized that while all quite different in terms of distinct articles, they all were so very soft to the touch. And while Christine would have loved to have continued running her hands along the fine fabrics, a knot of dread formed in her stomach as she pictured Erik's desire to do the same, only with _her _in them.

She found a long skirt and sweater that she would not ordinarily have put together, but when combined with a pair of thick fuzzy socks she discovered within a drawer, she decided it was suitable enough.

When she opened the adjacent drawer, to her horror she found all manner of underthings, ranging in style and fabric, some intricate lace while others the most delicate of cottons, all pretty and most assuredly _alluring._

Christine would have liked to shut the drawer and ignore it forever, but she was not about to go without—the very idea was too mortifying for words.

Christine grabbed the plainest set she could find and swiftly entered the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. She didn't know if she believed him about his ability to undo locks—although perhaps his capacity for stalking her while still incarcerated indicated that she should—but it made her feel better to latch it all the same.

The bath was large—much wider and deeper than any she had seen in the apartments she'd lived in growing up. She frowned, realizing that this probably meant that _Erik _used this bathroom as well, and the tub was designed to suit his extraordinary frame.

She wouldn't think about that now. She would tend to her more immediate needs and then go back out, bravely and calmly, to discuss what was to be done.

He had seemed so sweet before. All shy smiles and gentlemanly gestures, and she wished that her imagined view of his character had not been so cruelly shattered.

But it was, and there was no ignoring that.

Christine didn't dare make use of the bathtub, but instead ran hot water and found a washcloth, keeping her nightgown on as she hastily scrubbed at her skin. She was reminded of the testimony of Miss Jammes about the man peeping in at her, and while she had immediately dismissed it before, in light of recent discoveries it seemed prudent to be cautious—no matter how much she wished that it wasn't true.

She was grateful for the socks as a reprieve against the cold tile of the floor, and she tugged them up high upon her calves to warm as much of her as possible. The skirt she donned before even removing her nightgown, just in case there were any peering eyes where there most assuredly should not have been. The bra and new panties followed, and to her added embarrassment she found them both to fit remarkably.

Lastly she donned the sweater, and she was certain that it was made of the same sort of material as Erik's own suit—cashmere maybe?

She couldn't help running her finger over the sleeve for a moment, marveling at its suppleness.

At last satisfied that she was decently covered, she reentered the bedroom and contemplated whether or not to venture out into the living area once more. At least she was alone here, her safety temporarily assured, but yet there seemed to be little purpose in hiding. He likely had the key, and if he wished to demand her company he could easily do so.

And Boo was out there…

With a deep breath she pushed open the door, only to stop short as her silky friend brushed passed her with a mew of displeasure that she had shut him out in the first place.

"I would have granted him entrance, but I thought you would be offended that I opened the door without your express permission."

She jumped, not having noticed him seated upon a large leather chair and evidently waiting for her emergence.

Christine glanced behind her only to see Boo prowling about the bedroom, inspecting and rubbing against different items in turn.

"I don't have many doors at home. I guess he isn't used to anything separating us."

That was not exactly true, as the door to the bathroom in her apartment was obviously utilized, his little black paws often coming under the door in a desperate plea for entrance.

"Then I suppose I must fashion a mechanism to allow him freedom throughout the house." He said this quite calmly, his eyes darting about the room in an assessing manner.

And while she might have been endeared to the notion that he was so willing to make changes to his home to accommodate Boo, it was yet another reminder that his intentions were for them both to remain here for an indeterminate amount of time.

She shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what she should do now. Erik sat stiffly in his chair, a large tome balanced on the arm.

"I didn't mean to interrupt if you were reading." Christine started inching back through the door in case he was upset by her intrusion, but he waved his hand indifferently.

"Nonsense. I have had a lifetime to read in solitude. I did not bring you here to lock you away in your bedchamber."

Christine swallowed. "That's… good."

Erik's mouth formed a thin line. "Quite. Now, can I interest you in breakfast? I shall presume that your barren cupboards are a result of a lack of funds and not a distaste for food in general."

She blushed. She did not know why she should be embarrassed, but the reminder that she was incapable of providing for herself in a way that would ensure her cupboards were always fully stocked—somehow it stung when coming from this man.

"I was perfectly all right. I never went hungry…"

That was a blatant falsehood, but from the way Erik looked at her, there was nothing successful about her deception.

"Indeed. So then you preferred to eat inadequate meals of your own accord. Perhaps we should revisit the issue of whether or not you would do yourself harm."

Indignation welled within her, the words escaping before she could consider the hurt they might cause. "You are far skinnier than me, so I hardly think you're one to make accusations!"

His lips pursed and his eyes darkened, and before she was even consciously aware of doing so, she took another step backward.

But his rage did not come, only a huffed breath as he rose from his seat. "Perhaps you are right, although I can assure you, if you were subjected to prison food I doubt you would be interested in their offerings."

Christine flinched, the reminder of where he had spent the last few months an unexpected pinch at her heart. "I'm sorry. Of course you would not be interested in eating there. Especially not when they…" she forced herself to stop speaking lest she say something even more upsetting.

Yet Erik took a step forward, his expression inscrutable. "Oh? And what did _they _do?"

She bit her lip, trying hastily to determine if he was angry with her for her thoughtlessness. "The bruises," she murmured, almost wishing he could not hear her.

For whether or not she had been mistaken in regards to the charges against him, the bruises that had littered his exposed flesh were real—evidence that he had suffered and was worthy of at least some modicum of compassion.

"Ah yes, a symbol of humanity's goodwill." His head cocked to the side. "Did they trouble you? Surely they did not make my visage even worse."

She gaped at him. "Of course it did!"

It was the wrong thing to say, for this time he flinched away from her, his shoulders hunching as he stared down at the ground. "I see."

His devastation was clear, and despite everything he had done, or might have done, she felt awful immediately.

"No, please, that's not what I meant. I didn't like to see you hurt!"

He glanced at her, and for the first time she saw a glimpse of the shy man she had first smiled at in the courtroom. His eyes were full of distrust, the pain in them so clear. "You did not?" His eyes narrowed. "Would you still not? After what I have done?"

She sighed and glanced about the house she had yet to truly explore. "You mean because you kidnapped me?"

He nodded haltingly, almost as if he was suppressing his desire to argue with her.

"Erik… this wasn't all right. Drugging me, bringing me here…" If possible, he seemed to shrink into himself even further, and that strange pang within her heart throbbed yet again. "But that doesn't mean I want you to suffer—that I'd want you to be abused."

He hummed, and seemed unconvinced at her answer.

"Couldn't you have…"

She kicked herself for yet again entering into a conversation she was unprepared to have, especially not when Erik seemed to be disappearing before her very eyes the longer they spoke.

But Erik was curious and he braved glancing at her again. "Couldn't I what?"

She swallowed. "Have defended yourself." She scrambled to drop the subject as he stared at her. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't judge. I'm certain if someone tried to hurt me I wouldn't know what to do."

He barked a laugh, a harsh and incredulous sound that made her nervous. "Firstly, I can assure you that you will never be put in a position where you would be harmed in such a manner—not by anyone. And secondly, it was not from lack of skill that I was hurt, but from lack of will. Sometimes it does not seem worth the energy to even ward off the blows."

Christine couldn't even imagine such a thing. The implication that it happened so frequently—that he had simply given up hope of his life being free of such beatings—hung thickly between them.

"What changed?" she asked quietly, remembering how the wounds had faded as the trial progressed.

His shoulders straightened and he stood up taller. And this time when he looked at her, the intensity of his gaze nearly took her breath away. "I met you."

It was not what she expected. Perhaps that he had finally had enough and stood up against his tormenters. Or maybe that he had reported the abuse to a prison guard or the warden and they had put a stop to it. But she never thought that simply her acknowledgement of him, that merely her _looking _at him, had changed something.

"I… I don't know what to say."

Truly she didn't. Not when the very prospect frightened her, for it likely meant he had grown attached to her.

And how did she explain that over the course of the trial, she had determined to begin living as well?

But Erik shook his head. "You need not say anything. I promised you food and have delayed it too long already. Come with me."

They passed through another hallway, and she tried not to wonder what was held behind the closed doors.

Other girls?

Yet even as she thought it, the way he looked at her, the notion felt wrong.

This experience had made her doubt her instincts about him, but maybe it was all right to cling to some of the most fundamental ones… at least until he proved them wrong.

At the end of the hall they turned right, and without even a flick of his hand, the darkened room was filled with light.

Finally it occurred to her. "Are they on motion sensors?"

Erik went to the refrigerator without turning to her. "In a manner of speaking."

Well. That was not very helpful.

Especially when it gave her no further indication of how to make the bedroom lamps cooperate.

"I admit my own failure to ascertain your preferred breakfasting items, so you shall have to provide some measure of direction."

She wondered if that _failure _stemmed from a lack of surveillance on his part, or from her own meager offerings when it came to her morning meal.

With some bemusement she guessed it to be the latter.

"I don't really know."

He turned to her, his expression mildly horrified. "You mean to say that you do not remember what it is like to eat breakfast?"

She blushed, for that certainly wasn't true.

Breakfast with her papa had been a staple growing up. Before she left for school and he hurried off to work, they would take the time to eat together. Some mornings they would talk, or he would help her with a particularly troublesome assignment, other times they would divvy up parts of the newspaper, him with Fine Arts and her pouring over the funny pages.

Lunches were had at school, and frequently he would miss dinner if rehearsals went late, but breakfast was a sacred thing between them.

And ever since he had died, she had typically spurned the breakfast ritual, preferring to make a cup of tea and eat on her way somewhere—or perhaps even forego the meal altogether.

"Can I just… look and see what you have?"

He grimaced at that but relented, stepping away from the fridge and allowing her to peruse its contents.

She had forgotten what a full refrigerator looked like.

Most things were sealed, most things looking newly purchased, and she briefly wondered if he had bought things just for her—only to then kick herself as she remembered he had only _just _been released from lockup.

When had she become so self-centered?

There were eggs and bundles of carefully packed meats in white paper that could potentially hold bacon… but even the thought of making something so similar to what she shared with her papa—especially with her captor, turned her stomach.

"What do you usually have?"

That seemed safe enough. If she made it so that he was forced to make the decisions, at least she could absolve herself with the knowledge that she was merely following his lead.

And then promptly felt guilty for not having the courage to take responsibility for herself. Her papa would not mind. She had never pretended that he would approve the way she had pushed away something so important to them.

Just as he would have been so cross with her the way she had ignored her music so completely—at least until recently.

Erik's lip curled slightly in distaste. "Perhaps we have something in common, for I am not one to indulge in a morning repast."

Her stomach chose that moment to clutch painfully, and it finally occurred to her to ask how long she had slept—how long he had _made _her sleep.

"It's been more than one night that I've been here, hasn't it."

It was a statement and not a question.

The way she had felt when she first awoke was more than simply coming out of a drugged stupor, but was much more like a terrible fog from sleeping far, far too long. Her body ached slightly as her muscles remembered what it was to move freely, and again that trickle of fear reminded her that the man offering her breakfast was not above overpowering her to get what he wanted.

She frowned at the thought.

"The amount of sedative I gave you should not have caused you to sleep so. Evidently your body merely used it to provide you with much needed rest."

That did not answer her question, but from the look of displeasure on his face, she fretted over whether or not to press the issue.

"You were in a state of near exhaustion. The fools you work with did not appreciate you, and then you…" he shook his head, his voice little more than a whisper, almost as if he was speaking more to himself than to her. "What else was I to do? It was right to bring you here… It _was…"_

He was growing more agitated, and the unpredictability of his moods made her uneasy.

"Is there cereal?" she blurted, hoping to distract him from whatever thoughts were beginning to plague him.

Erik stopped fidgeting and blinked before taking a breath. "Of course."

Her eyes widened as he opened a cupboard. She had expected perhaps a box of Raisin Bran, maybe some Cheerios, but the entire thing was filled with perfectly lined boxes, ranging from those appealing to health conscious individuals, to sugary delights that made her teeth ache slightly just at the sight of them.

Her first impulse was to ask if he had bought them all for her, but her new determination not to make assumptions stayed her tongue.

"Quite the connoisseur."

He gave a little shrug, and she was left with the distinct impression that she had embarrassed him. "I did not know what would be to your liking."

She didn't know how to respond to that, so she merely stepped closer, keeping careful distance between herself and Erik, and made her selection. She pulled the box down cautiously, utilizing her left hand to ensure her elbow did not brush against his person. He made no effort to be nearer, but he closed his eyes briefly before she moved away from him.

And when he opened them again there was a sad wistfulness that made her sorry. "I do not want you to be unhappy here. I do not know what to offer you, what would help to make your stay more comfortable. I did not… intend for you to become my prisoner."

Christine wondered what he thought would happen when he made the conscious choice to drug her, to take her sleeping form to… wherever they were. But by every appearance he seemed sincere, as if her reaction to these deliberate events genuinely surprised him.

It made her all the more confused.

She fiddled with the unopened box top. "Maybe you could start by telling me what you did intend. What you… want from me."

He was quiet for a long while as he leaned against the black countertop, watching as she opened cupboards and drawers in search of a bowl and spoon. It was a reach for her as everything seemed especially suited to his much longer frame, but she managed relatively well.

She had to get close to him again to get the milk, but yet again he did nothing untoward, even going so far as to move his arm away from her when she accidently brushed the carton against his sleeve.

There was no table in the kitchen and finally when she had poured the milk and began eating it, mimicking his posture as she did so, he abruptly vacated the room with a commanding, "Come."

With some hesitation she obeyed, mildly annoyed both at being ordered and because she did not want her cereal to get soggy.

He led her through to a dining room, a long rectangular table dominating the space. It was beautiful and shiny, and she was relatively certain that this particular space was rarely used.

It felt wrong to corrupt such a fine table with something as silly as cereal.

But he was pulling out a chair and looking at her expectantly, and yet again she acquiesced.

He took a seat opposite her, and told herself firmly that she would scold him if he stared while she ate, but instead his gaze was fixed on a seam within the highly polished wood, his lips pulled into a tight frown.

She tried not to slurp.

"Already you question your initial impression of me—that because I have… brought you here, that suddenly I am guilty of Poligny's murder."

She sighed, pushing around the little squares of cereal with her spoon. "I didn't… all I meant was that clearly you're capable of doing shocking… very _wrong _things. Maybe you did kill him, but I know I could not have found you guilty with the case Mr. Sorelli presented."

Erik scoffed. "Judge Albright was right to censure him. As if such absurd pieces of testimony could replace genuine evidence."

It gratified her somewhat to hear him speak of the case. Somewhow she had grown comfortable with the process of the trial, with hearing witnesses and the bickering of the attorneys.

And in some small way, it reminded her of the good opinion she had toward this man before… well, before all of this.

"But you doubt it now," he mused, more a statement than a question.

Christine ate the last of her cereal and wondered if Erik would think it terribly rude for her to drink the last of the sweetened milk that was leftover.

"I do not know what to believe."

He nodded at that, sadness exuding from him. "Quite reasonable," he agreed, but still he would not look at her. "And I don't suppose that by simply telling you what happened would help convince you of my character." Another statement.

Her brow furrowed. "It would be a start at least. So far you haven't told me _anything._ About any of this, either," she waved vaguely at their surroundings.

Erik dismissed that quickly. "I shall give you a proper tour after your breakfast." He leaned forward and finally looked at her, his eyes bright and intense. "But it is important for you to know whether or not I killed that man, yes? That would make you feel more comfortable here with me?"

Her confusion was growing as his urgent tone—as if some kind of plan was forming in his mind and her answer would determine his next course of action.

She wondered if now was the time to start drinking her milk, simply to avoid him.

"I… I do not like to think that you were capable of hurting him. Because then what if I did something to make you angry and… you…"

His tone gentled for a moment, his gaze equally soft. "That would not happen, Christine. I would never harm you, no matter what you said or did."

She wished she could believe him.

But even without saying it, he seemed to recognize her continued unease, for he leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "I had hoped we could put the entire business behind us, but I can see that this is important to you. You may trust me, Christine. But perhaps my word is not sufficient."

Whether or not he killed Mr. Poligny was not at all the root of her distrust of him, but he did not seem prepared to acknowledge how _wrong _and upsetting his decision to kidnap her truly was. Apparently it was better to focus on this, something he believed could unequivocally prove his innocence and restore her faith in him.

"What do you intend to do?" she queried nervously.

This time his grin was full of mischief, something that frightened her all the more.

"We are going to have a new trial. And this time you shall know the truth of what transpired."

* * *

><p>Sooo... looks like they have a ways to go on this whole communication thing! Somehow I think they'll have time to work on it though... at least, if Erik has anything to say about it!<p>

And what do you think he means about another trial? Ominous, no? Will he turn himself in?

Thanks so much for reading!


	16. Chapter 16

Another long chapter today! I hope everyone is enjoying the holiday season (and for those of you finishing up semesters, that you are surviving finals!). I'm actually considering taking a week off (for the first time ever!) so I can enjoy my own Christmas celebrations with fewer distractions and less self-inflicted guilt should I miss a writing day. I'm not entirely certain how this will affect posting, so it will be a surprise for all of us!

But anyway, onward!

* * *

><p>XVI<p>

She tried to get him to explain—to tell her of what this new trial might mean, but he only waggled a long, gloved finger at her. "You shall have to wait, my dear. Erik needs time to think."

That was precisely what terrified her.

A part of her wondered if he meant to be arrested again. Perhaps he would deliver some evidence of Mr. Sorelli and the trial would begin anew. But how would he ensure that she was again on the jury? She supposed he could demand she remain in the audience, ever watchful as new testimony and old was given before the court. And it meant she could go home…

She brightened at that, but did not wish to seem too eager, so she mentioned one of the other elements that was pressing on her mind. "They'll be looking for me at the restaurant. I'll get fired and then whenever… well… when this," she glanced about the windowless dining room, "is over, I'll have to find work somewhere else. I like that job…"

But far from being moved by her plea, Erik gave a mild derisive laugh. "You _liked _waiting on ingrates and wasting your talents on untrained ears?"

She frowned and sat back in her chair. "It's not like that."

He stared at her pointedly.

"Okay, it isn't _always _like that. Some of the diners are very appreciative of my efforts and my singing! In fact, some even wrote to Carlotta and specifically requested I be put back on the roster."

Even as she spoke the words, with Erik's gaze never wavering from hers, she realized.

"You did that."

He inclined his head ever so slightly.

"You seemed an angel in the courthouse. One sent just for me. I admit my curiosity, and I wanted to know if you had a voice to match. You did not disappoint," he praised.

Christine sat there numbly. She liked the idea that she had touched one of the diners so thoroughly that they had taken the time from their otherwise busy schedules to ensure management knew of their appreciation. But instead it was Erik, exerting his will and providing more evidence that while the question of his status as a murderer might yet be unconfirmed, his profession as an extortionist seemed more than likely.

"You… you…" She could not even find the words to express how he had hurt her, so she trailed off with a whimper before shoving aside the bowl of untouched milk and burying her head in her arms.

_If you can't see him, then he can't see you…_

"Christine? Christine, what is wrong? The milk was fresh so you cannot have been poisoned…"

She almost rolled her eyes at that. No, she had not been tainted by sour milk. _He _had done that. He was the one who had entered her home and given her a potion or an injection or… something that had made her sleep too long and made her head fuzzy and her legs sore. And then he acted as if everything could be all right again…

It was all too much. Communicating with him seemed impossible, as his thoughts and reasoning were wholly disconnected from hers—especially when he hardly seemed interested in _answering _her questions. He could see her upset but instead of realizing her troubles stemmed from his own thoughtless actions, he firmly relegated it to a possibility he was more comfortable with. And as of yet, she had not found the courage to correct him.

Until now.

Her head jerked upward and she knew she must look rather demented with her flushed cheeks and overly bright eyes. "Why did you have to do this? You made me think that people _cared _about me… that they…" She had to swallow the lump in her throat in order to continue. "Did you also bribe the woman in the grocery store when I was shopping for Boo's things? Am I that pathetic to you?"

Erik's eyes were darting about the room, and she was left with the impression that he would like nothing more than to flee from her.

She understood the feeling well.

It filled her with a sense of power that she could make him feel nervous, if only for a moment.

"I… it was never my intention to make you believe I viewed you in so low a manner…" he finally managed, although she noted that he could not bring himself to look at her.

"You say that often. Yet when I ask what your intentions actually are, you evade, or tell me to wait, or dismiss it entirely!"

He was silent, and she noted with some bemusement that his shoulders had tensed and he grew slightly hunched, as if to ward off the sting of her words.

She was torn between feeling vindicated that something had finally reached him, and horror that she had wounded an already tortured soul.

"What is… what would you like to know?"

_Everything _was the reply she wanted to give, but instead she went with the question that she had only just thought to ask. "How did you drug me?"

It seemed most relevant to her current predicament. If she was uncooperative, or did something to displease him, would he do it again? Perhaps if she knew how he had done it before, she could circumvent it in future—at least, if he was truthful.

But as she regarded him, she thought that at least for now, he would be honest with her.

And there was little else for her to use beyond her instincts when dealing with this man.

His lips thinned and it was obvious he would prefer not to answer, but after picking away a piece of lint from his fine suit, he managed a response. "It was a mild sedative to make the journey here more comfortable for you."

She did roll her eyes at that.

"I asked _how._"

He shifted uneasily in his seat and when at last he spoke his tone was flat, devoid of emotion. "An injection. In your left foot. I peeled back only enough of the bedclothes to uncover your appendage, before inserting a prepared syringe between your first and second phalanges. It was a sterile needle, and the solution was one I am quite familiar with, so you were in no danger and will suffer no furthering complications."

"Other than a headache and legs that might not want to cooperate."

He grimaced. "Perhaps. Although I am more inclined to believe that any lingering discomfort would be from sleeping such duration, and not necessarily because of my intervention."

She sighed. "You don't like to take responsibility, do you?"

Erik flinched. "I do not like to think that I have caused you pain. It was never my inten…" he halted abruptly as he glanced at her, and evidently thought better of using that word again. "I didn't want this."

She leaned forward slightly. "You didn't want what? For me to be angry? For me to be wary of you?"

He shook his head firmly. "Of course not. I only wanted…"

He hesitated, and his entire posture made it perfectly plain that he was about to bolt. So she softened her tone and forced down her exasperation, and remembered the compassion she had felt for him.

"What did you want, Erik? Maybe if you just explain I can start to feel more comfortable here."

It was a vague sort of hope, and not one that she put much stock in, but it was true enough.

He stood so quickly she jumped. "You were so lonely_._ Lonely and so perfectly lovely, and no one appreciated you! No one _saw._ But I did! I saw and I took and you weren't mine. And you would never _be _mine, not after…"

"After…"

He lurched away from her and strode from the room, and she barely caught his whispered response. "After you found someone else."

There was something so wounded about him as he fled the room, and despite her lingering annoyance, something in her tugged in sympathy at having been the cause.

Did he truly do all this because of Joe?

When at last she vacated the dining room, taking her tepid milk and soiled bowl with her to the kitchen, there was no sign of Erik—not that she tried very hard to find him.

He had promised a tour after her breakfast, and since he no longer seemed interested in being her escort, she wandered through rooms, finding most locked and she did not try very hard to get into them. They had to be barred for a reason, and the last thing she wanted was for him to finally appear and catch her somewhere she was not supposed to be.

Christine scoffed at herself.

She wasn't supposed to be _anywhere _here. She was meant to be in her apartment, or the restaurant or…

There wasn't really somewhere else.

And that made her feel all the more pathetic.

She was an adult in possession of all… well… _most _of her faculties, and yet she barely made enough to scrape a life from.

And as she made her way back to the bedroom, she realized that she had no one to blame for that but herself.

She had been a mere ghost of herself since her papa died, doing only what was necessary but little more. There had been no joy, no relationships, and she recognized now that her father would have been so disappointed.

Erik was right on one score. She had been lonely.

But as she thought of the face he now so carefully concealed behind a mask, he must be lonely too. Yet unlike her own self-inflicted isolation, his had likely been because of something far more tangible.

And the little prickles of compassion that had become so pronounced during the trial returned. It most certainly did not make his reaction okay—but it seemed a better solution to reason with him and convince him to let her go of his own accord than to sulk and cry and look for escape.

She did not wish to see him angry.

But she also realized she did not wish to see him hurt either.

And after the way she'd spoken to him…

There was no denying that she had hurt him.

Christine wandered back through the house, noting the strange architecture of the place as she looked around for more signs of Erik. There was no movement, no sign of another presence within the house, but the more she looked, the more she started to notice strange details that seemed entirely unique to this particular dwelling. There were no signs of electrical sockets, and even upon closer inspection, she still couldn't find any light switches or knobs to work the lamps. Heavy velvet draperies hung grandly upon the walls, but when she went closer to admire them, she realized that no window lay beneath.

Odd.

But for the moment she pushed away her curiosity, determined now to see Erik and find some kind of resolution to their little… problem.

Yet time dragged on and there was no sign of her… kidnapper? Acquaintance? And there weren't any clocks that could inform her how much time had passed.

Unsure of what else she was supposed to do, she curled up in the leather chair Erik had utilized, picking up the heavy book still sitting on the arm. It was a beautiful tome, one that belonged in a fine library, and she felt rather unqualified to flip through the pages. It seemed to be an anthology of various fiction; and while she hoped she wasn't doing anything she shouldn't, she settled more comfortably into the cushions of the chair, focusing on the words before her.

Eventually however her stomach reminded her that breakfast had long since ended, and she was forced to halt her readings. It was surprisingly engrossing, and she realized how little time she devoted to her once favored pastime.

Except that like so many things in her life, it hadn't been solely hers.

And that too she had ignored, preferring to abandon what gave her pain.

Boo had plopped in front of the fire in the living room, placidly washing his face as he enjoyed the heat of the flames. She rose and walked toward him, crouching down and giving him a stroke which he accepted readily—although she noted with a chuckle that as soon as her hand left his side, he washed the area clean again.

"I'm sorry, Boo. I didn't mean to taint you. Have you seen Erik? I'm getting rather hungry and I don't know if I'm allowed to make use of the kitchen."

Large golden green eyes blinked at her mildly, but he made no further move to help in her search.

"Big help you are."

She kissed the top of his head, relishing this temporary peace. After her breakfast her head had begun to stop throbbing so terribly, and her body seemed to protest her movement less the more she walked about the house… if it could even be called such with no windows and strange forms of electricity.

A bunker perhaps?

If it was, it was the finest shelter she had ever seen.

Everything appeared terribly expensive. The walls were mostly covered in finely crafted wallpapers, each very pleasing and welcoming if not for the foreboding shadows that clung about the edges of every room.

It seemed that no matter the amount of light, the very air itself was stagnant—too still and cloying and utterly silent.

"Erik?" she finally called, although she felt rather stupid while doing it. If she was alone it seemed far more prudent to figure out means of escape, despite her earlier decision not to contemplate such things. It wouldn't hurt to understand the layout, regardless of her resolution toward a more diplomatic mode of release.

She yelped when a seemingly solid bookcase slid to the side, Erik's tall figure filling most of the darkened recess as he walked through the opening.

He blinked at her before looking pointedly away, rigidly divesting himself of a long wool overcoat and hat and placing them neatly on hooks evidently intended for that purpose.

"Where did you go?"

The bookcase closed, apparently of its own accord, and she watched carefully for any sign of tracks or rollers that might suggest its construction.

There weren't any.

"Was there something you require?"

His tone was stiff and formal, and she realized with some discomfort that she hated it.

It shouldn't matter how he spoke to her, other than as a means of self-preservation, and yet his cool demeanor troubled her—and she couldn't quite say why.

"I didn't… I don't like how we left things."

He waved his hand dismissively. "You are allowed to speak to Erik however you wish."

He said it so casually, so perfectly sincerely that she flinched.

For it did not seem all right. No matter what he had done, it was not right to inflict pain upon another simply to soothe some part of herself.

Before she could convince him to talk with her, Boo abandoned his fireside spot in favor of using Erik's pant leg as a scratching post, his front paws barely reaching his knee.

Erik frowned and glanced down before shaking his head with a sigh.

She didn't know what she expected. That he'd scold little Boo for the misuse of his fine suit, or perhaps even shake him away before avoiding her presence once again.

But instead he leaned down and scooped him up. "Come along, little fellow. I was remiss in providing you another feast."

Christine followed as he led the way back to the kitchen, Boo offering encouraging meows along the way.

She watched silently in the doorway as Erik opened a can and arranged a generous helping of food upon a dish and placed Boo and his bowl upon a low stool—who then promptly began eating his meal with vigor.

"Why don't you feed him on the floor?"

Erik gave a grunt as he rinsed the silverware he had used. "Would you like to eat all your meals upon the ground?"

She smiled, despite herself. His tone was almost petulant—defensive.

And for some unexplained reason, it was endearing to her.

"You really saved him, didn't you?"

It wasn't that she hadn't believed him; not exactly. But she had expected him to be colder, more callous about the whole thing. Perhaps he had really stumbled upon a kitten on his way to her house to…. to _watch _her, but she had supposed it was an impulsive decision, such as with the rose. Something that might please her but that he felt nothing for.

But watching him as he stared down at their happy little companion, she could readily see that her assumptions had been wrong.

"I told you that."

She nodded, haltingly. "I guess you did. But I suppose I wasn't really listening."

He glanced at her peculiarly, as though she was some bizarre object that had suddenly appeared in his kitchen. "Then what did you think I said?"

Christine nibbled her lip, contemplating how honest to make her answer. She finally decided that truthfulness was important, especially if they were going to begin communicating more effectively in future.

"I didn't doubt that you'd brought him to me. I just… I didn't think that you'd cared much about him."

He frowned at that. "You do not think highly of me, that much is clear."

She sighed, tugging at her sleeve before whispering, "Give me a reason to."

Erik shook his head. "I have _tried. _But still you are angry with me!"

It was her turn to frown. "What do you mean?"

He turned to her, his eyes filled with pain thinly veiled by vexation. "I tried to make things better for you. You seem to be under the misapprehension that I did these things to trick you, to manipulate you. That I bribed individuals into caring for you. Why would I want you to bestow your affection upon _them? _I acted, my dear Christine, because _I _care for you. You were unappreciated at your place of work, and I intervened. Things improved, no?"

She was too stunned by his outpouring to even nod. But in reality_,_ they had. Her tips were far greater, and when added to the money she received from the trial, for the first time she had breathed a little easier—that everything would no longer fall apart if she was not exceedingly careful.

"Do you not understand?" He sighed deeply and when next he spoke his voice had dropped in decibel and he sounded incredibly worn. "I wanted to help you, to be your friend. You had _seen _me, as unfortunate as that might have been. You knew of what people so readily accused me of, and yet you defended me. I thought…"

She swallowed, nervousness causing a low ache in her belly. "Thought what?"

He looked at her then, truly looked at her. And the magnitude of misery she saw in his colorless eyes took her breath away. "How is a monster to approach an angel without her recoiling away?"

"I don't think you're a monster," she replied with slightly more force than she'd intended.

Perhaps she should, after all he'd done. Maybe there was some faulty wire in her brain that made her want to excuse his actions, but when he looked at her that way—so full of hurt and sorrow and loneliness…

She saw a piece of herself.

A piece that had only recently begun to mend.

And while she had thought it was because she was finally waking up to the world around her, that she was noticing the good, kind people who had always been there, it was with some quiet acknowledgment that she realized that it had also been because of him.

But that didn't change how wrong this entire situation was.

"I don't want to dismiss how… difficult this must have been for you. I've never really tried to approach anybody either."

This felt ridiculous. This wasn't some schoolyard squabble where a boy had pulled her hair because he couldn't find the words to express how he felt. He had knowingly _drugged _her, and brought her to this… place.

"Erik, you have to talk to me. I… if I'm going to stay here, I need to understand how things will work or else I'll go crazy!"

His eyes narrowed. "What part of 'work'?"

She groaned in exasperation. "The light switches for one! Or what the locked rooms are for, or if I'm allowed to get food out of the refrigerator, or where you'll…"

Christine stopped herself before she made a fool of herself and asked where _he _slept. It was clear from the bathroom fixtures—the entire construction of the house really—that everything was perfectly suited to Erik's needs, and if he expected to share a bed with her…

He stared at her. "Why would you question your access to my food stores? Have I not made my opinion on your abysmal eating habits plain?"

She shrugged, suddenly feeling silly. "I just… I wanted to make sure."

Yet from the way she avoided his gaze, the unspoken addition that she wasn't sure of his reaction hung thickly between them.

"You do not trust me." He sighed deeply. "While I know it to be true, I admit that I had expected it to sting somewhat less the more I was faced with it."

Christine didn't have a response.

"Very well, I shall make my views as clear as possible. If you are thirsty, you should drink. If you are hungry, you should eat. If you would like to make use of the facilities, by all means, you should do so. You most certainly do not need to ask my permission for such matters. As for the lights…"

Erik walked past her and she presumed she should follow, so she hurried after him.

He stopped just within the bedroom, facing the wall to the right of the door. "I do not care much for the aesthetics of modernity. While the convenience is of course appreciated, having plastic additions to every wall I find to be… distracting."

He held out his gloved hand, and looked at her expectantly. "If you will permit me, this is much easier to understand if you experience it for yourself."

"Um…" Christine stared at him before hesitantly placing her hand in his.

It was for the sake of having light whenever she wanted, she told herself firmly.

But that didn't stop her heart from beating faster as his hand gripped hers and he eased her pointer finger forward, gently guiding it over a portion of the wallpaper.

It had a slightly raised texture, and as he moved her hand up and down, light emitted and dimmed in turn.

"There are sensors embedded in the wall coverings. I will show you where."

She nodded, and watched somewhat detachedly as Erik carefully stroked his thumb over her knuckles before he released her altogether.

"As for the locked rooms, I have been remiss in opening those that are welcome to you. There is a library that might be of interest, as well as a music room; although the latter would require an escort." He paused, his voice hesitant but firm. "However, I must ask that you remain out of my personal bedroom."

Christine instantly relaxed, incredibly grateful that she would not have to broach that particular subject on her own. "Of course. Privacy is important."

She hadn't meant for her comment to be so pointed, but Erik smiled grimly all the same. "Indeed."

"Now, is there anything else that can make your stay with me more… comfortable?"

Christine glanced about the room, finally able to appreciate its subtle elegance now that it was illuminated properly. She already knew that the bedding was excellent, and the clothes within the wardrobe were far nicer than anything she owned.

But still it troubled her to think of all her things, scant though they might be, wasting away in an apartment without her.

She fidgeted, not certain how to ask, but knowing that she must. "What will happen to all of my things? If I'm not there to pay the rent then my landlord will get rid of everything…"

Erik was quick to reassure her. "If you would like me to continue leasing the apartment, I shall do so. While the neighborhood is appalling and the building itself a disgrace, if it should please you I would do so."

Baby steps.

Rational conversations.

Gentle reminders that she _had _a home and would soon need to return to it.

"I'd like that."

He nodded. "Fine. Anything else?"

She eyed the bed again. Maybe it was foolish, but it was one of her greatest comforts, and now of all times she wanted it near.

"My mother's quilt—the one on the foot of my bed. If it's okay with you, or wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd really like to have it with me."

There must have been something in her tone, a hint of the sad wistfulness she always felt when she thought of her mother, for Erik stood a little taller, his voice sure.

"I would give you anything you wished, Christine. Anything at all."

She smiled thinly, knowing that he was incapable, or perhaps simply unwilling, to give her what she needed most.

Her freedom.

"Not yet, you won't. But maybe someday."

Erik made no reply.

* * *

><p>Sooo... Their first fight! Where do you think Erik went off to? Think he was up to something or just giving her some time alone? I wonder...<p>

My hope is to still have an update for you (I hate disappointing people!) but if things are different this week, know that _nothing _has happened to me (at least, I certainly hope not!), and I have in no way abandoned this story. That's just... yeah, that's never going to happen.

Anyway, do you think Erik should let Christine go? Or are you enjoying them being together, no matter the... uh... dubious circumstances...


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